The Salem Protocol
by Esther-Channah
Summary: An AU spinning off from Batman RIP. Canon-compliant through Batman 677 and part of 678. After that, all bets are off. When GCPD makes a surprising arrest, Gordon knows he needs to call in support.
1. Chapter 1: By A Stranger's Hand

**The Salem Protocol**

Prompt: Writer's Choice (Protect and Serve)

Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta! Thanks to Char and Sara for general advice!

Warning: Contains MASSIVE spoilers for Batman #678. Written before Batman #679 came out and will become an AU in less than a month.

"It Must Have Happened," written and performed by Mary Chapin Carpenter, _The Calling _(Zoe, Why Walk Music, 2007).

* * *

_Can't remember seeing all my hopes_

_Going up in flames_

_I can't remember reaching_

_For the closest thing to dull the pain_

_I can't remember feeling_

_I could be healed by a stranger's hand_

_--Mary Chapin Carpenter, "It Must Have Happened"_

* * *

**Chapter One: By A Stranger's Hand**

At first, the police commissioner had wanted to believe that the man was undercover. It would explain the shabby clothes, the eyes that had met his and looked away without a flicker of recognition, hell, the fact that they'd even been able to keep him in the holding cell. Something had seemed off, though. It had taken awhile before the Gordon had been able to put his finger on it, but when the realization had come, it had been in a moment of blinding clarity: the disguise was too sloppy.

Always, in the past, Jim had been taken in—by all the costumes except the one most commonly used. Sometimes, he'd been permitted a glimpse behind the façade. The other man's gaze would suddenly shift. Facial muscles would contract. And he'd say something like, "my name is Stone. I work the night shift." '_Night shift'_—said with a particular emphasis.

And Gordon would relax, knowing that he wasn't alone in whatever crisis he was currently facing. Batman was out here with him. All was well.

Except tonight, the man who had been in the holding cell—the delirious, panic-stricken man whom they had rushed to Mercy General hospital when it was clear that whatever was wrong with him went beyond a normal person's apprehension at being in custody—hadn't been in some impenetrable disguise. He'd been Bruce Wayne in shabby clothes, with five o'clock shadow and a glazed-over look to his eyes, which had seemed all too real. Jim wondered that nobody else seemed to have made the connection. People saw what they wanted to, he supposed. He frowned. He definitely hadn't wanted to see Bruce like… that.

He debated the matter for a few minutes. It was still possible that this was all a ploy on Bruce's part—and that Jim had just gotten to be a little too good at seeing though disguises. If the man needed to get out of holding without staging a breakout or dropping his cover, Jim supposed it was easier to escape a hospital than the GCPD lockup. A traitorous voice spoke up in his mind.

_Nobody's that good._

And then, an instant later, _Batman is._

_Nobody. And anyway, what did he gain by being here? You saw the security cameras. He didn't try to talk to the other prisoners. He didn't even look at them. He…_

_He still might have found what he needed._

Gordon sighed. There was one way that he could know for sure. He could contact the hospital. He reached for the phone, and then stopped. Since when did the commissioner of police take such an interest in a John Doe? He considered his options, for a few minutes. Then, he smiled and reached for the phone again.

"Barbara? Are you at… work, right now? Good. I need you to check on something for me. Discreetly."

* * *

It was only a few minutes later that Barbara called back. "Your John Doe tested positive for heroin and crystal meth, Daddy," she said. Her voice was calm, even chipper, as though she had no clue who the patient was. Gordon knew better.

He hesitated. "We ran his prints. We're still waiting for the results to come in, but I imagine that when they finally do, we'll be no closer to a valid identification?"

Gordon heard it: an unmistakable sigh of relief. Then, his daughter asked, quite matter-of-factly, "how long have you known?"

"Long enough to know that there's no way in hell that he'd have willingly put that junk into his veins."

"I couldn't agree more." Her tone became more businesslike. "He's all for submerging himself in a role, but he wouldn't go that far." There was a pause. "And he's not experiencing any withdrawal symptoms—which means he can't have been taking the stuff for very long, since…" She laughed. "Why am I wasting time explaining this to you? You've been a cop in Gotham long enough to know how addictive meth is!"

Gordon chuckled softly in response. "So, what happens now?"

"I've been trying to reach the others." She paused. "Do you know… everyone?"

"Let's say I do," he replied. "But let's not mention civilian names or places, just in case I don't."

"Okay. I tried ringing the house and there was no answer. Which is weird, because there's always someone home. And if someone isn't, the home phone forwards to a mobile number. Plus I had a communication from Robin earlier, saying that B," the nickname sprang automatically to her lips, "wasn't answering his calls." She paused again. "'Wing is also missing, now. The boys were supposed to rendezvous, but he never made it to the checkpoint. You… you didn't hear any reports of…?"

"Nothing." He took a breath. "If I do, if it's serious, I'll try to make sure you hear it from me instead of the news feeds."

"Thanks. So… he's at Mercy, now?"

Gordon nodded. "That's right. Bail's likely to be set at a thousand. I have it…"

"Bail?"

"My men brought him in for assault and resisting arrest." He grimaced. "Patrol car in Crime Alley saw a fight going on and called in backup. From the report, it seems he was in the thick of it. When he ignored an order to stand down, they used pepper spray—"

Barbara snorted. "He must've _loved_ that."

"He would've loved being charged with assaulting a law-enforcement officer a lot less. I hear it took four of them to get him into the squad car. Anyway, when I read the report, I wanted to have a look at the guy who caused that much trouble." The humor in his voice died. "And after I did, after I saw the shape he was in, I got him transferred to hospital and called you."

"Thanks."

He heard the smile in her voice. When she spoke again, though, the professional tone was back.

"You can't post the bond, Daddy. For the same reason you couldn't call the hospital: it'll make people wonder why you're showing such an interest. Leave this with me. There are a couple of people I can call in. I'll phone you back in an hour."

Gordon nodded slowly to himself. "Alright." He chuckled. "Nice to finally be able to work together officially after all this time."

"Well… unofficially officially, anyway."

They laughed and hung up.

In Platinum Flats, California, Barbara Gordon opened a new video chat session and pulled up two contacts.

* * *

By the time Barbara had finished relaying her information, both the blonde woman and her surrogate son were frowning.

"If Batman's in that kind of trouble," Dinah said slowly, "is it fair to assume that the manor's been breached? I hate to bring this up, but considering that one break-in gave R'as al-Ghul detailed plans on how to take down the rest of the League… Let's just say I'm concerned."

"That's taken care of, actually," Barbara replied. "You know he went away for a year. Before he left, he emailed me his access codes. I know," she continued quickly. "It shocked the hell out of me too. And the accompanying message? Two typos. From Bruce. You know how out of character that is? All I can think is, that between that business with the Protocols, the mob wars a couple of years back, and OMAC, he decided he needed to work on his trust issues. So he took a step. A huge one. But he did it almost on impulse before he could change his mind. Anyway, his systems haven't been compromised."

"Unless he didn't send you all his codes," Roy said. "Or unless someone was messing with his head before he got picked up by Gotham's finest and he just _told_ them what they wanted to know. And before you ask me if I really think Bruce would do that under any circumstances, you want to tell me how anyone got close enough to inject him with Smurf dope? No way all his bats were in the roost when that happened."

Barbara nodded. "Alright. It's a possibility. So, let's recap. First, we need to get Bruce out of the hospital before someone recognizes him. Second, be prepared for the possibility that he won't recognize _you_. Daddy said he was really out of it. Once he's with us, we can try to figure out what's going on and how to fix it. Third, we need to secure the manor." She bit her lip. "Normally, I'd say 'forget the manor, find Dick and Alfred'. But right now, we have no idea where either of them is, and the first place to start looking would probably be the house. Alfred could be there. Bruce may have communicated with Dick from the cave—if so, we can try to get a fix on his last location. And if the cave _has_ been compromised," she bit her lip again, "with all Bruce's files—not just on the League, but on civilians—cops, witnesses, leads…" She shook her head. "If I have to take the caped community to DEFCON 1, I need to know it as soon as possible."

Dinah nodded, her expression grim. Roy seemed about to say something. "If any of them were here, they'd be telling us the same thing," she interrupted. Once the manor and cave are secure, we start looking for Dick and Alfred—if they aren't at the scene. Then… we see. If Bruce needs our help taking down whoever did this to him, we give it to him. If he can handle it, we let him."

They nodded. "Looks like I'm the go-to person for drug issues," Roy said lightly.

"Actually," Barbara smiled back, "I need you more for your covert ops skills. Work with Tim, check the situation at the Manor, and see if you can locate the others. I'll monitor communications bands from here."

She looked at the other half of her monitor. "Dinah, if it comes to that, Bruce isn't going to go through a real withdrawal, but I know you've had some experience with…"

On the screen, Dinah nodded. "Helping people get through some of the side effects." She turned to Roy. "Barbara's right. I can do that part of it. I guess I'm posting the bond?"

"You got it."

Dinah gave a mock salute. "Okay, Roy, looks like we've got our marching orders. I'll meet you at JLA Headquarters—we'll use the transporter to get to Gotham. Be there in five." She grinned. "We'll do this, Red. You can put money on it."

"I did," Barbara smiled back. "Where do you think the thousand is coming from?"

The other woman laughed for a moment. Then, she sobered. "The League looks after its own. This guy—whoever he is—is going down soooo fast..."

"Call me when you arrive. And let my dad know first—he hates being cut out of the loop."

"Oh, so that's where it comes from," Dinah smirked. "Talk to you soon."

Both channels switched off.

Barbara smiled. "Soon."

* * *

"You're good to go, buddy." The orderly held open the door to the room and gestured to the hallway outside.

The man on the cot blinked slowly. "I am?" He pushed back the blanket hesitantly.

"We've had word from Central. You made bail. And seeing as you're no longer tripping and you came in with no ID, and no proof of insurance, it's time you were moseying."

The man blinked. "No… insurance?" That couldn't be right. He had to have that. He was… His memory hit a wall. Who was he? Honor had called him 'soldier', but that wasn't a name. Then… what was it? The furthest back he could remember, Honor had woken him up in an alley. He'd been filthy, sick as a dog, with no idea who he was or how he'd gotten there. There were clues, though. He spoke an educated polished English, devoid of the slang and profanities that had laced his new companion's speech. The clothes he'd been wearing, though torn and dirty, had been of high quality. His hair had been recently cut, and by a professional.

He frowned. "Are you sure?"

The orderly shrugged. "That's what they tell me. Your clothes are on the chair. I'll come back and check on you in ten minutes."

The other man sat up and looked to where the orderly was pointing. "And then, where do I go?"

"Wherever you want to, buddy." He paused. "You really don't have any idea, do you?"

The patient shook his head. "I don't remember anything that happened more than… two days ago."

The orderly sighed. "I'll get you the addresses for a couple of shelters when I come back. Best I can do." He was out the door before the other man could thank him.

* * *

The leggy blonde seated on the bench outside the hospital leaped up as he walked by. "Bruce! Over here!"

Automatically, he turned at her call. "Do I know you?"

The smile on her face froze, but her voice didn't waver. "It's me, Dinah! I…" She hesitated, seeing Bruce's agitation. If he didn't recognize her then… "We… We've worked together in the past. Barbara asked me to come in." She forced herself to speak more calmly. "For now, though, all you need to know is that I'm the one who posted your bond—and I've got a place where you can stay."

He absorbed that. "You called me 'Bruce'. Is that my name?"

She nodded, but the smile dimmed another fraction. "You don't remember?"

"No." But it sounded right. _Bruce_. He felt a puzzle piece fall into place. "Who's… Barbara?"

"Mutual friend."

"So you say." He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I appreciate your setting bail for me… and I'd go home… except that since I don't know where I live, my choices appear to be one of the shelters on this list," he held up the paper, "or to go with you." He frowned. "Why should I trust you?"

Dinah shrugged. "If my intentions were hostile, I wouldn't have posted your bond."

"I've only your word that you did that."

"My word, and this paperwork." She thrust a folded sheet at him.

He scanned it quickly. "Dinah L. Lance." That name also resonated. He still didn't know whether she was friend or foe, but apparently, she was telling the truth when she said that he knew her. Still… "Could I see some identification?"

Dinah grinned. "Suspicious as ever, even without your memory." She reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet. "Drivers' license good enough?" She asked, passing it over.

He glanced at it. The name and signature matched. The photo wasn't perfect, but fell well within the proper parameters. Satisfied, he handed the paperwork back to her and caught a sparkle and a gleam of gold on the ring finger of her left hand as she reached for it.

His hand froze. "You're married."

She nodded. "Something wrong?"

His mouth suddenly felt dry. "Not… to me?"

Dinah laughed. "No, no. Not to you." She grinned. "Though there was a time…"

Bruce exhaled. "Good. I… if I was married to you, I think I'd want to remember."

She laughed again. "I'm parked over here. Come on."

He followed her; his suspicions still present, albeit allayed somewhat.

* * *

"Alarm's off," Robin said, as he keyed in the punch code to the kitchen door. "Doesn't mean the special security isn't on, though."

Red Arrow nodded. "Alfred's not here to let us in. That's warning enough, in my book."

Robin's answering nod was grim. "Cave's this way. Let's check the security tapes. But be careful. Whoever took out Bruce might still be…"

"Robin! DOWN!"

The youth flung himself to the ground instantly as a red-fletched arrow hissed through the air. He heard a shriek from above him and something fell past his ear to clack to the floor. As he turned his head to the side, he saw polished black shoes beneath white pant-legs that were festooned with… black pompoms? On the floor next to the shoes was something that looked like a short skipping rope with two wooden handles—a garrote. "So much for sneaking in," he muttered as he rose again to his feet.

It looked like Roy's arrow had pinned his attacker's sleeve to the wall. A bright red dot welled up through the fabric. Tim judged that it was only a graze.

Without a moment's hesitation, Red Arrow slammed the man's head into the wall twice. Beneath the white face makeup, eyes glazed over, rolled back, and finally closed. "You know this… clown?" he asked.

Robin nodded slowly. "Pierrot Lunaire. I fought him last night."

"Not hard enough, if you ask me." He snorted. "You know, if he were about a half-inch shorter, and his build were a little bit narrower, he could pass for the Wingster."

Tim eyed the unconscious man critically. "I guess. Hard to tell under that face paint. Okay. No Alfred, and this creep was coming after us. We were quiet, didn't trip any alarms, so they must have been watching the security cameras. I guess we were right about the cave being compromised."

Roy scowled. "Lovely. Can we take it back?"

"We have to. Until we know for sure that Alfred _isn't_ down there, we have to assume that he is. And we have to get him out."

"What do you suggest?"

Tim told him…

* * *

The instant the lift doors opened, a floodlight switched on, bathing the upper half of the elevator car in brightness. Fortunately, both young men were crouched on the floor at the time.

"Looks like your hunch was right," Red Arrow snapped, leaping forward. "What else've we got to look forward to?

Robin tumbled and rolled in the opposite direction, dodging a hail of rubber bullets. "These, for one thing. Also, non-lethal shocks, flash-bangs, nets, shuriken…"

"Great. So nothing here will actually kill us… just keep us busy so someone else can." He slid under a laser beam. "Ow! Damn, that stings!"

"Cover me," Robin said grimly. "I need to get to the next level. And wear ear—" A flash-bang went off directly in front of him. The youth cursed. He had to do this fast—especially if whoever had engaged the cave's defenses had figured out how to disengage the safety interlocks. _Here's hoping nobody moved the furniture_, he thought. He fired off a line to where he was sure the opposite railing would be. It felt right. He gave it an experimental tug, and was relieved to find it securely anchored. Quickly, but carefully, he hoisted himself over the catwalk railing and stepped into empty air. _Gauge it. Rate of downward acceleration, number of meters descended… swing and jump to next level… NOW!_ He released the line and sailed once more through the air, this time without the benefit of an anchor. He sprawled heavily on metal deck plating and offered up a silent prayer of thanks. He'd made it… but he wasn't out of the woods yet.

This was the ancillary nerve center of the cave—roughly analogous to auxiliary control. Slowly, painfully, he got to his feet. "Computer, voice identification code: Robin Gamma-Jack-Redbird-Three acknowledge! He could only hope that the computer had complied. His ears were still ringing. "Computer, implement Salem Protocol, authorization: OMAC-Babel-Wargames-Initiate!"

This time, he heard it. A chime and a dulcet tone. "Salem Protocol has been initiated. Standing down from condition alpha." Robin breathed a sigh of relief. He nearly jumped as a hand gripped his arm.

"What the Helsinki was that?" Red Arrow demanded.

"The Salem Protocol. It's Batman's failsafe. He gave us override codes in case he was ever possessed, brainwashed, or went rogue. Basically, it lets us—Nightwing, Alfred, or myself—neutralize the cave defenses." He swiftly keyed new codes into the computer. "Data's locked down." There was a cry from below. Robin chuckled. "It also shorts out the main computer consoles." He turned to face the other crimefighter. The spots were beginning to recede from before his eyes. "C'mon, you knew Batman came up with his protocols against the League. It never occurred to you that he had a couple for himself?"

Roy just stared at him.

Tim sighed. "Later. Come on, let's see if we can find Alfred."

"Find him?" A harsh voice cut through their conversation. Both men turned as one. "He's right here!"

Below them, before the central computer, a tall, austere man wearing an archaic but familiar costume stood. Behind him, a white-masked man in a blue business suit, of all things, was massaging his fingers in obvious pain. Off on the periphery, they could see other costumed interlopers. Bound to a chair before the computer, was a bruised and disheveled Alfred.

It was all Tim could do not to rush down to the next level. _Alfred!_ And he recognized the costume—Bruce's father had worn it long ago to a fancy-dress ball. He remembered Bruce telling him that, in a sense, Thomas Wayne had been the first Batman. And this guy had just waltzed in, smashed the display case… Bruce was going to _kill_ him.

At a gesture from the ersatz Batman, the others started forward.

"Here they come," Roy cautioned. "All six of them."

Tim readied his bo staff. "Can we take them?"

Roy considered their options for a split-second. "Can you turn the defenses back on? Make them ignore us?"

Tim stared at his older companion. "I can turn them back on… They'll ignore me… but I haven't got time to get the computer to recognize you as a friend."

"Do it. I'll deal. While I'm dealing, get down there." He frowned. "Put your earplugs in. I got an idea."

Robin bit his lip as he fumbled for the soft pieces of rubber. "Computer: Initiate…" For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the man in full Roman battle dress and the woman in battle armor screamed as the newly electrified stairs sent currents surging through them. As Red Arrow grimly fitted an arrow to his bowstring, Tim attached another de-cel cable to the railing and began his descent to the main control area.

"That's far enough," The masked man's lips formed the words as Robin touched down. He was holding a wicked-looking dagger against Alfred's neck. Robin recognized it from the trophy room—it had once belonged to Ned Brann, a former member of the original Red Hood gang. Alfred sat unmoving, his head bowed.

Robin froze. "What do you want?" The man's voice was muffled, thanks to the earplugs, but Tim's lip-reading skills had been honed by years of training.

"I've already taken it, Timmy," he said mockingly. "His cave, his home… his very existence."

He barely registered the use of his real name. "What have you done with him?"

"Is this the point where I'm expected to give you some sort of cryptic clue, or simply reveal my secrets outright? I don't think so. Stand your ground, or I'll test the keenness of this blade on—"

An arrow buzzed past them to thunk into the computer console behind them.

"That was stupid," the man spat. "Do you think I'm bluffing? Do-aaaaagh!" He fell to his knees, hands pressed to his ears in pain as the blade skittered to the floor.

Robin smiled slowly. A sonic arrow. That was why Roy had told him to wear the earplugs. He glanced over and saw their other assailants lying about in various degrees of consciousness. With a sigh of relief, he deactivated the cave's defenses once more.

Red Arrow joined him a moment later. "How is he?"

"Hurt. It looks serious." Robin swallowed. "Help me get him into the medical area, and then we'll—"

A car door slammed. Tires screeched. And a Batmobile sped away with the ringleader visible in the front passenger seat. Biting back a curse, Roy nocked another arrow. Tim stayed his hand. "We can track it through GPS later. Alfred needs help, now."

Roy nodded slowly. "That clown from upstairs was at the wheel."

"I saw."

Alfred groaned faintly. Immediately, both crime fighters set to work on the ropes. First things first.

* * *

Tim watched the medical monitors nervously. "Why's his breathing so shallow?" He asked.

Roy shook his head, even as he placed a supportive hand on the younger vigilante's shoulder. "That's what happens when someone shoots you up with sedatives," he said evenly. "I've seen it before with recovering addicts—sometimes they need to be kept under to get past the worst of the withdrawal symptoms."

"Will he… be okay?"

"Probably," Roy said. "But he should be in the hospital—which is going to be a problem, because that's not the only thing wrong with him." He gestured angrily at the figure lying on the sickbay cot. "Good luck explaining away those bruises… unless you feel like faking a robbery and making like the crooks beat him up. Hell, it's close enough to the truth."

Tim shook his head. "No time. And we don't really want them crawling all over the place. What if they find one of the cave accesses? Plus, if they suspect an inside job…"

"It was just a thought." Roy smiled, then. "Guess JLA membership's good for something then." He strode over to the cot and scooped up the elderly man. "Doc Mid-Nite'll take good care of him," he said, as he carried Alfred toward the transporter. "I'll be back in a few."

Tim nodded, and opened a channel to report to Oracle.

* * *

"…And then Roy took—"

"Hold on one second, Tim," Barbara interrupted. "You're sure Pierrot Lunaire was at the manor?"

"Yeah, or his eviler twin."

An image flashed on his console. "This guy?"

"That's right."

"You're sure?"

Tim cocked his head in exasperation. "Oracle, what's the matter?"

There was a long pause. "Yesterday afternoon, about an hour or so before you were supposed to meet Nightwing, Pierrot Lunaire was admitted as a patient to Arkham Asylum. And he's still there. But if you just fought him…" Barbara took a deep breath. "If someone dressed Dick in an outfit like that… with that make-up…"

A loud expletive made Tim jump. He hadn't noticed that Roy was back. "I do not FREAKING believe this! Thanks for the tip, Oracle. C'mon, Tim. We'll get him out if I have to…" He broke off suddenly.

"Robin," he said with an odd smile on his lips, "did I hear Black Glove call you 'Timmy', during the fight?"

Tim went cold. "He did! Oh… my… G—" He stopped. Why was Roy grinning?

"So, they already know," Roy said. "Not just about Bruce, but the rest of you. Which means that if we were to…" He sputtered and took a deep breath, trying to hold back his laughter. "Oh, G-d, this is _perfect!_ Grab a car, 'Timmy'! This is going to be fun!"

Robin's thoughts were spinning. Dick was in Arkham, the Club of Villains knew their secrets, and Roy thought this was a good thing? "But…"

Roy was still laughing as he clasped an arm around the younger man's shoulders. "Trust me!"


	2. Chapter 2: Cardboard Masks

Author notes: Reference is made to the animated short _Hare Brush_, directed by I. Freleng (Warner Brothers, 1955).

Thanks to Sara, Jules and Char for research help!

Thanks to Debbie for being a sounding board!

Thanks to Kathy, Aiyokusama and Sara for the beta!

Information on Arkham Asylum taken from _The Daily Planet Guide to Gotham City_ by Matt Brady and Dwight Williams (WEG, 2000).

"A Good Mother" written by Foster, Robert, Richards, and Jann Arden (Girl on the Moon Music; Universal-Polygram, 1994.)

* * *

**The Salem Protocol**

_Cardboard masks of all the people I've been _

_Thrown out with all the rusted, tangled dented worn-out miseries_

_You could say I'm hard to hold_

_(Jann Arden)_

* * *

**Chapter 2: Cardboard Masks**

It felt odd, driving around in broad daylight in the Robin suit. Tim tried to concentrate on the road ahead and ignore Roy. The older crime fighter was jabbering animatedly into his com-link.

"You're saying they didn't run his prints, didn't verify whether there was a guardian or power of attorney… How did it go down? Someone answered the doorbell at Arkham and found 'Wing tied up in a straitjacket with a note saying 'please take good care of our little Pierrot—he's a coupl'a dancing bears shy of a circus act—and the docs just smiled and said 'wow! And us with a vacant cell! Let's keep him'?"

Tim couldn't hear what Barbara was saying on the other end, but she clearly wasn't making Roy any calmer.

"What do you _mean_, I need a court order to get him out? They sure as hell didn't have one to stick him in—_Thorazine_? Are you freaking kidding me? Look!"

He paused for about five seconds, before ranting on. "You're damned right, I'm shouting. I'm about ready to tear that place apart brick by—" He hesitated, then continued in a slightly quieter voice. "NO, I don't want Scarecrow and Hatter on the street… I'll tunnel in under the outpatient wing, okay?"

There was a longer pause.

"A writ would work too, I guess. Can I at least lock the docs up in solitary? Key Arkham's car? Run a fake ad under his name in the personals column?" He sighed. "You know, you're making this a lot less fun than I thought it was going to be."

He let out another deep breath and activated the mini computer built into the Redbird's dashboard. "Okay. I'm online at the judicial forms site. I'm downloading the writ now. Got it. I'll check back with you once we got him. Red Arrow out."

Robin took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at the other vigilante. "So?"

Roy smiled. "Everything's fine, Robin. Keep your mind on your driving."

The younger man complied as he tried to figure out exactly what it was about Harper's smile that terrified him.

* * *

"I… know this place," Bruce said slowly. "But, I don't live here."

Dinah nodded. "It's one of your safehouses. According to Barbara, you've got a few." She frowned as she looked at the keypad situated to the right of the door, level with the brass door handle. "I think it's…" She tapped in a sequence of numbers, then pressed down on the handle. The door remained locked. Dinah laughed self-consciously and tried again. "I don't believe this," she muttered. After her third failed attempt, she grimaced and turned to Bruce. "Would you excuse me for one second, please?" She asked sweetly. "I need to make a call." So saying, she pulled out her cellphone and hit a speed-dial button.

Bruce looked curiously at the pinpad as Dinah waited for her party to come online. It was comprised of four rows of three buttons each. The buttons of the top three rows were numbered from one to nine, with the bottom row consisting of a pound key, zero, and asterisk. Without realizing it, Bruce's fingers moved slowly but surely to the pinpad and pressed five keys in quick succession.

The door opened readily as he pressed down on the handle.

"Never mind, Babs… it's… under control," Dinah was saying. "Bruce? Did you remember…?"

Bruce's eyes moved from Dinah, to the pinpad, to the now-open door. "I don't know what I pressed," he said slowly. "It just…" He closed his eyes. "Yesterday, before I was arrested, I remember… I was attacked. I fought back, but the moves I used… they weren't typical street moves." He frowned. "And don't ask me how I know _that_ either."

He followed Dinah inside and up two flights of stairs to another door—heavy oak with brass fittings. There was another keypad—this time, directly below the door handle—comprised of two columns of numbers plus the first and last six letters of the alphabet.

She looked at him. "Want to try?"

There was no hesitation this time. His fingers brushed the brass buttons and automatically tapped in the proper code. He looked over his shoulder at Dinah's hopeful expression and shook his head.

"It's…" He tried to explain as they entered the well-appointed apartment. "I can picture a map of the city in my head… and if you were to give me landmarks, I think I could pinpoint their locations." He looked around. "I've seen all this furniture before… I must have chosen it… but I…" He shook his head. "Never mind. Perhaps it'll come to me." He paused. "I imagine I must have credit cards or debit cards, and I probably know their access codes—even if I can't say them offhand. From what we've just seen, I have to have retained some memory of them." He frowned. "I'm analyzing… everything. I find that I'm taking note of details without even realizing that I'm doing so… until I put everything together. I think…" He blinked. "Am I a detective?"

Dinah smiled. "One of the best in the world. And that's not flattery—it's fact."

Bruce nodded. "Except… something doesn't fit. I suppose that—if I'm successful at my profession—I might be able live in a certain style." He held up his hand. "It appears that I've had a manicure, and not long ago," he said thoughtfully, "but these are laborer's hands. They're callused, the fingers have been broken in several places, and there are scars—some fresh, some years old." He frowned. "Ever since I woke up in an alley yesterday, even when I've been surrounded by people speaking street slang, I haven't resorted to it. I've understood it perfectly, but, my natural… speech patterns seem to be—"

"More polished," Dinah completed. She nodded slowly. "Okay. So far, your observations are on target. What else?"

"How do I know you, again?"

"We've worked together."

Bruce's eyebrows arched upwards. "Really? You said that before, only…" his eyebrows drew together. "I may not know who I am or where I come from—and maybe the only things I know about my past are what I've been able to piece together through observation—but my memories about other things seem to be intact. For example," his voice hardened, "I have no problem remembering, Ms. Lance, that you frequently go by another name. So, perhaps you can tell me why the current Chair of the Justice League would have worked with me in the past, and why she'd be so interested in my condition… Black Canary."

She hesitated. "If I tell you, I'm not sure you'll believe me. And it might be better if you remember it on your own."

"I'll believe you if you're telling me the truth," he snapped. "And I'll know if you aren't. Answer me."

Dinah remained silent, considering.

Bruce's eyes narrowed to slits. "Tell me! Why does my condition matter to you? ANSWER ME! NOW!"

"YOU'RE BATMAN, DAMN IT!" Dinah shouted. Instantly, her hand flew to her mouth. Of all the stupid… Bruce was confused, disoriented, trying to connect the clues, of course he was going to be angry that she was keeping things from him. Maybe he shouldn't have yelled at her, but she shouldn't have yelled back. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know this has to be rough for you."

He was staring at her. "I'm… Batman?"

She nodded.

"I'm Batman."

Abruptly, he spun on his heel, opened a nearby door, and walked through, closing it behind him.

Dinah waited a few minutes, then cautiously followed.

* * *

The door led into a bedroom. Bruce was sitting on the double bed, looking in the mirror. He appeared to be talking to himself.

"I'm Bruce," he said. Then, a moment later, "I'm Eric." He paused. "I'm John. I'm Batman. I'm Grey Ghost. I'm Wildcat." He frowned. "I am Elmer J. Fudd, millionaire. I own a mansion and a yacht."

Dinah giggled.

Bruce turned to her. "I do own a mansion… don't I?"

She nodded. "I'm not sure about the yacht, but it wouldn't surprise me. What are you doing?"

"An experiment." He propped his elbow on his knee and rested his chin in the palm of his hand. "I was trying to see if I could detect a difference in my reaction to statements which you've told me are true, versus random guesswork on my part."

"And?"

He sighed. "And I still don't know whether I'm considering your words more trustworthy because you, at least, _seem_ to know who I am, while I'm still trying to find out, or whether you have, in fact, been telling me the truth… but I think I believe you. At least, for now."

Dinah smiled. "Glad to hear it." She laughed again. "Elmer Fudd?"

"Yes, well," Bruce coughed. "I had to throw at least one name into the mix that I _knew_ couldn't be right."

* * *

"Thanks, Gary, much appreciated." Roy grinned. "You know, one of these days, we ought to get together: you, me, Sarge, Winston…" He broke off. "Okay, later." He closed his cell phone.

"What's with the change of clothes?" Robin demanded. Roy now wore khaki Dockers, a cream-colored button-down shirt, an olive green tie, and a tweed sports jacket.

"I can't go into Arkham as Red Arrow," Roy said. "As far as they're concerned, I'm Arsenal, aka Roy Harper. Sometime hero, sometime agent of Checkmate, member of the Suicide Squad, Titan, Outsider, babe magnet…"

"So, Arsenal wears street clothes and Red Arrow doesn't?"

Roy shook his head. "Red Arrow is a member of the JLA," he said, suddenly serious, "but Roy Harper has links to Checkmate. That's what we need, right now. Problem is, Roy Harper also has a little girl who's been endangered a few too many times. I can't have people connecting Red Arrow with Arsenal. So, since this particular mission calls for a few favors I racked up during my Agency days," he ran a hand through his hair, "and since I don't really need the JLA credentials this time out," he adjusted his tie, "I'm ditching the spandex."

"Oh." They drove in silence for a few minutes, until they passed the Asylum's main gate. Finally, as he pulled into the visitors' parking lot, Tim ventured again, "So, how are we going to get him out?"

"You grabbed a pair of Dick's shoes before we left?"

"You saw me stick them in the back seat. How are we getting him out?"

Roy smiled. "I'll keep my com-link open. Listen, learn… and get ready to move in if I have to switch to Plan B."

So saying, he exited the car and slammed the door shut on Tim's plaintive, "you haven't even told me Plan A, yet!"

* * *

Jeremiah Arkham did not have a personal secretary. He had a security guard with a stun baton positioned outside his office door. That didn't faze Roy in the slightest. He barreled down the hallway, directly toward the heavyset man—who gulped and clutched his weapon more tightly.

Before he came in range of the baton, Roy slowed his pace, reached deliberately into his jacket pocket, and slowly pulled out an ID wallet. "Roy Harper. I'm a private investigator. I need to speak with Doctor Arkham."

The guard tightened his grip on his weapon. "What about?"

"What're you? His receptionist?" Roy demanded. "Tell Arkham that if he doesn't want this place to get sued out of existence, he'd better find a few minutes to talk with me, fast."

The guard swallowed. "Stay here." He disappeared into the office. A moment later, he emerged and beckoned to Roy.

* * *

Arkham was shuffling reports as Roy approached his desk. "Mister… Harper, is it?" He sniffed. "You're away from your normal stomping grounds. Is there something I can help you with?"

Roy smiled. "You could say that." He slid his identification across the desk. "I've been taking on some PI work in my spare time. Heroing doesn't pay the rent and, well, I've got a five-year-old," he said affably. "You understand."

The director frowned. "I'm not certain I do."

"Alright." Roy picked up a paperweight from the desk. "In a nutshell, I got a call last week from Bruce Wayne. Apparently WayneTech's about to unveil some new supergadget or other that's going to blow the competition out of the water, revolutionize the industry, the usual hype. Except," he dropped his bantering tone, "the competition decided it likes the water, thank you very much. So they warned Wayne that if he went ahead with the product launch, they'd go after his oldest kid." Roy's expression turned grim. "Wayne asked me to keep tabs on Dick Grayson, which is what I was doing. Everything was fine—until yesterday, when he went for a lunch date. He never showed up, and he hasn't been seen since."

"Oh?" Arkham sniffed again. "So, you've misplaced your charge. Unfortunate… but that still doesn't explain why you're here."

"Bear with me, Doc," Roy said. "I'll explain." He pulled a picture out of his wallet. "This is what Mr. Grayson looks like, today." He pulled out a second photograph. "And _this_ is a photograph of Pierrot Lunaire, whom, if my sources are to be believed, you admitted as a patient yesterday afternoon. Looks like a case of mistaken identity to me, doesn't it?"

Two bright spots of color appeared on the director's cheeks. "Really, Mr. Harper, while I can understand your distress at failing to protect your client's interests, I can't have you disturbing my patients on some madcap notion that one of them is your missing person. It is the policy of this institution to disallow visits for the first seven days in order to acclimatize our new patients and get them settled into the routine. I can't set that aside because you have some… some bizarre notion that we've somehow admitted the wrong person."

Roy blinked. "You're saying you don't have Mr. Grayson here as a patient."

"That's correct."

"You're sure?"

Arkham nodded. "Quite sure."

Roy shrugged. "Ok," he said easily "I guess that's that." At Arkham's confused double take, Roy nodded. "I mean," he said, "going by the information that would have been presented at the hearing, there's no way that it could be anyone but Lunaire, right?"

Jeremiah frowned. "I believe that's what I—"

"Exactly. So, I guess I'd better be moseying along." He turned as if to go, then doubled back. Oh, Doc?" Roy said, still in a friendly tone. "Just one more question, if you don't mind? Where would I get a transcript of the hearing?"

"What?"

"Where," he repeated, still smiling, but now speaking slowly as though to a particularly dull child, "would I get a transcript of the hearing? I mean, considering that Mr. Lunaire was spotted on a motorcycle driving through the Gotham warehouse district within the last forty-eight hours, and you've had him less than a day—well, that must have been one speedy arrest and trial." His eyes danced. "So speedy, in fact, that I defy you to find an arrest record, or a civil commitment order, or anything else stating that you've got any legal right to hang on to this patient."

For the first time since Roy had begun to speak, Arkham looked nervous. "Well, I'm sure that the paperwork must be here." He walked slowly toward a filing cabinet and pulled open the top drawer. He made a show of rummaging through the files before he looked up with a disconcerted frown. "Clearly, there's a rational explanation," he said with forced joviality. "After all, we can't just shut people away without a hearing."

"Particularly if they're French nationals," Roy smirked.

"Correc—what?" Arkham's head snapped up.

"Oh, you mean that wasn't on the… um… commitment papers that 'must be there'?" Roy asked. "Pierrot Lunaire is a French citizen. Meaning that _if_ that's who you've got here, there'd be a report from US Citizenship and Immigration Services, local police, probably FBI, seeing as this guy's France's answer to the Joker."

Jeremiah stared at him, mouth agape.

"No papers?" Roy asked in mock sorrow. He brightened. "Well… maybe I can help. See," he fumbled through his pockets, "I figured you might not want to compound a felony with a misdemeanor, Doc, so I made danged sure I had a writ with me to get Grayson out before I walked in. Hang on a sec…" He pulled out a folded sheet of paper. "Is this… no, this is my confirmation that I'm on active status with Interpol. _Here's_ the writ." He laid the document down on the desk.

Arkham returned to his chair, sat down, and picked up the paper. "This is a release for Mr. Grayson. I… this will be bothersome, since we have no patient here by that name. It will take time to verify your allegations, you understand."

Roy blinked. "Oh, please." His upper lip curled in disgust. "Please tell me you're NOT going to pull bureaucracy on me after all this. I mean, you can't find the damned papers, so what are you going to stick the red tape on?"

"Yes, well," Arkham harrumphed, "I grant you that there are some irregularities, but…"

Roy reached over deliberately, seized Arkham by the shirtfront, and pulled him forward. "But nothing!" He snapped, all traces of camaraderie vanished. "Listen to me you pompous little paper-pusher! If _I_'_m _right, and you're holding Richard Grayson… well," he shrugged, suddenly calm once more, "congratulations. You've just annoyed one of the most powerful men in Gotham City; a man who employs some of the top lawyers in this country… and a man who, incidentally, is also one of your biggest defenders in the press."

He released Jeremiah's shirt and the director fell back into his chair. "If _you're_ right, on the other hand," he shrugged once more. "Again, congratulations. You've just ticked off the government of France and put the US in the goddamned embarrassing position of having to explain how the bloody, blue bleep you run this place."

He grinned. "Of course, you _could _always take me to your patient, now. If it's Grayson… I'll be sure to tell Mr. Wayne how cooperative you were, and I'll collect my pay, and everyone's happy." For the first time, he sat down in the padded visitors' chair. "And if it's Lunaire, well, I'll be happy to use my Interpol connections to turn him over to the French authorities. They'll take care of him, I'm sure." He swung his feet up and rested them on the desk. "Whaddayasay, Doc?"

Arkham looked like there was a great deal he wanted to say. Instead, he rose to his feet and headed for the door. "Follow me," he ordered curtly.

Roy obeyed, still grinning broadly.

* * *

As they entered the patient intake wing, Roy's grin fell away. It was like walking into another century. He remembered Oracle's briefing. A few years back, the historic Arkham Asylum building had been destroyed by a new face in Gotham—a face that belonged to the man known as Bane. Rebuilding would have taken too long, so the city had cast about for an alternative and found it at the old Mersey Mansion. Six months of construction and renovation to update the building and bring it up to code, and the new site had been ready for business.

The intake wing, however, was located on the lowest levels of the original building, in what might have been a wine cellar once upon a time. No hint of modernity seemed to have penetrated this far down. Instead, the stone walls and heavy wooden doors—complete with barred windows, resembled nothing more than medieval prison cells.

Roy stiffened as he heard a low moan coming from one of the cells further ahead. _It might be Joker. It might Two-Face. It might be _Tanner_, for all you know_.Roy tried to tell himself that he hoped so. He knew that most of the people incarcerated here probably deserved to be. _But that moan… _It was right out of a cheesy Halloween special, but in these surroundings, it chilled him. _This is a twenty-first century hospital—not the Marquis de Sade's basement, damn it! _

"This way." Arkham walked briskly, his vision straying neither right nor left. Two guards walked ahead of them, two orderlies followed behind. He didn't seem at all perturbed by the scene around them.

A wave of cold fury washed over Roy as another moan echoed down the hallway. _It better not be Dick._

It wasn't. Arkham stopped before one of the cells and nodded to the guard to unlock it. Roy walked in, with the others on his heels.

The cell wasn't very big. And, apart from a padded cot and a small toilet and sink, it wasn't furnished. There was a figure slumped on the cot, his head down.

Roy dropped to one knee. "Dick? Buddy?"

Slowly, the figure looked up. "R-r-r?" An expression of horror crossed his face. He frowned. "Rrrrroy…"

For the first time, Roy saw that he was wearing a straitjacket. "Get that off of him," he snapped.

"Um… sir, that might not be a good idea," one of the orderlies said. "According to his chart, he was extremely violent when he was brought in."

Roy turned his head long enough to cast a withering glance at the speaker. "You don't say," he drawled. "You mean, after he was kidnapped, restrained, dragged here, and shown his new digs? Gee. I wonder why." His voice hardened as he pulled a wicked-looking bayonet out from under his jacket. He grinned as he heard Arkham's sharp intake of breath from behind him. The guards had patted him down when he'd come in, of course, but there were a few tricks he knew to get around that. "Forget it," he said. "I'll handle this myself." He placed a hand on Dick's shoulder. "Hold still a minute."

It actually took several minutes for Roy to saw through all of the straps. Through it all, Dick sat calmly, watching. Once the remains of the straitjacket had fallen away, he rose unsteadily to his feet. Then, without warning, his knees buckled and he sank back to the cot.

"It's the Thorazine," Arkham volunteered quietly. "Until it wears off, he can expect to experience dizziness, lack of coordination—"

"Dryness in the mouth, agitation as it wears off," Roy finished. "I'm impressed. You look that up on Wonkipedia, Doc?"

The director cleared his throat. "Perhaps I could show you both to more… comfortable surroundings. You could wait there until the medication has had a chance to wear off."

Roy turned around. "Somehow, I don't think any surroundings within a two mile radius of this place are going to be comfortable enough. We'll just be going."

He lifted Dick's arm and draped it loosely over one shoulder. "C'mon, buddy. Let's take it slow. One step at a time." He looked down and cursed softly. "Damn. I knew I forgot something. I left your shoes in the car." He sighed. "Good thing we're not parked too far from the door."

_And good thing Robin's been listening to the whole thing, and is probably driving up to the entrance right about now._

* * *

They were almost to the foyer when Dick stopped. "Don' feel s'good," he mumbled.

Roy turned his head, took one look at Dick's face, and quickly steered his companion towards a nearby mens room. They almost made it. Roy winced. He could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times that Dick had let _anyone_ see him in a state like this. "Easy," he said. "Just do what you got to."

Dick finished being sick. "Srry," he said.

"Don't be. Couldn't have happened in a better building." Roy helped him straighten up. "I've got some water in the car. Think you can keep it down?"

"Dunno…'ll try…"

It seemed an eternity before they were across the foyer and down the steps. Sure enough, the Redbird was waiting for them at the bottom.

Robin was grinning as they approached the car. The grin dropped abruptly, though, as he saw the state that Dick was in. "You okay?" he asked as Roy motioned to him to open the back door.

"Shr, I mm."

"He'll be fine," Roy said as he got into the back seat next to Dick. "Once the meds work through his system. We just need a place to crash until they do."

Robin nodded. "The manor's too risky if Black Glove comes back. One of the satellite caves should work fine." He glanced sharply at Roy. "By the way, what happened to the rest of Black Glove's gang?"

"While you were talking to Oracle, I beamed 'em up to JLA HQ and then back down to the GCPD. With any luck, they'll be deported back to wherever they came from."

"Good." He looked over his shoulder. "Dick? You sure you're alright?"

Roy smiled but his tone was serious. "Drive with the window open. Just in case."

* * *

Bruce was having a nightmare. Dinah hadn't thought anything of it when he fell asleep on the bed. Between everything that had happened to him within the last two days and the fact that Batman really wasn't a day person, she'd taken it in stride when he'd dozed off in the middle of the afternoon.

She hadn't expected him to start tossing and turning less than a half-hour later.

"No!" She heard him cry out. "What are you doing? You can't! N-n-noooo!"

She did her best to ignore it, realizing all too well what it might mean to startle a man with Batman's reflexes. Finally, she could stand it no longer. She went back into the bedroom, stopping several feet away from the bed.

"Bruce," she called softly. "Wake up. It's okay. It's…" She bit her lip. "It's just a dream."

His eyes slid open. For an instant, Dinah saw a relieved expression cross his face. Then his gaze hardened. "I… remember," he said slowly. "When we worked together."

The smile that was starting to form on her lips froze at his next words.

"I just realized why it is that I don't entirely trust you."

"Wh-what?"

Bruce nodded. "I saw you… watching. And you never did a thing to stop them." His words cut sharper than any scalpel. _"They took my mind and _you_ let them!"_


	3. Chapter 3: Halfway Through the Wood

The Salem Protocol

A/N: Bruce's meeting with Lone Eye Lincoln adapted from a scene in _Batman #678_ (Batman R.I.P.: Zur EN Ahrr), Written by Grant Morrison. Drawn by Tony Daniel and Sandhu Florea. DC Comics, Aug 2008.

"No One Is Alone" written by Stephen Sondheim. _Into the Woods, _1986.

Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta! Thanks to Sara for the additional info!

Prompt: Sleuth

**The Salem Protocol**

Sometimes people leave you.  
Halfway through the wood.  
Others may deceive you.  
You decide what's good.  
You decide alone.  
But no one is alone.

_--Stephen Sondheim, "No One is Alone"  
_

**Chapter 3: Halfway Through the Wood**

"And then, he bolted," Dinah finished miserably.

"You couldn't stop him?" Oracle checked herself. "No, of course you couldn't. His memory's been affected, not his fighting skills." The computerized simulacrum vanished from the monitor screen, to be replaced by Barbara's face. The red-haired woman sighed. "I'm sorry, Dinah. I know you tried."

"Yeah. Not hard enough, though." the other woman responded. She considered for a moment, and then added, "either time."

Barbara was silent. For a moment, Black Canary wondered whether her former partner would rise to the opportunity. Then, "Dinah? What _did_ happen that first time?"

"You don't know?"

"I know the bare facts. I've guessed a little more. But I don't know how you…"

Dinah smiled sadly. "How I could have gone along with it?" She shook her head. "I was still trying to prove I had what it took to step into my mother's identity. I kept telling myself that Ollie wouldn't go along with anything like that if it weren't justified." She shook her head again. "And taking a stand wouldn't have meant opposing him only—it would have pitted me against Barry, Ray, Ralph… Carter… Babs, I looked up to those guys." She grimaced. "I convinced myself that if what they were doing was wrong," she took a deep breath. "No. I went along with it. I'm as much a part of it as they are. If what _we_ were doing was wrong, one of the others would have spoken up." She bit her lip. "Go ahead and say it, Babs. Whatever it is, it won't be worse than what I've already told myself." But it was a relief to finally have it out in the open, whatever happened next.

The minute it took for Barbara to respond felt like an hour. "I'm… glad you told me." There was a rueful tone to her voice—a note of sad humor. "Even if I'm not the one who really needed to hear it."

Dinah felt her heart plummet. "I knew you were going to say that. I'd have tried before, when he woke up; but when he…" She took a deep breath. "The only thing I could think of saying was, 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' And… it—I knew that wasn't going to cut it." Another time that she hadn't made an effort—however futile—to do the right thing, she realized.

To her surprise, though, Barbara nodded. "No, you're right. It wasn't the right time." She let out a long breath.

Dinah waited for her to continue.

Barbara appeared to be lost in thought for a moment. When she looked up again, though, her eyes were clear. "First things first. Bruce is out there now, and we can't rule out the possibility that Black Glove is looking for him."

"But… if he wanted to keep tabs on Bruce, why would he have let him go in the first place?"

"We don't know that he did," Barbara replied. "All we know is, that the night before last, Batman was on patrol, business as usual. Yesterday afternoon, Bruce was in GCPD holding, coming down from a meth-and-heroin high. We don't know whether Black Glove captured him and he managed to escape while drugged, or whether Black Glove deliberately dumped him on the street. And if he _did_ dump him, we don't know whether he was still keeping tabs. Did you happen to check to see whether Bruce had some sort of tracer on him?"

Dinah let fly an oath that might have curled Ollie's beard. "I can't believe I didn't think of that! Shi--!"

"Easy, Dinah. Relax," Barbara said gently. "The cops searched him. The hospital would have probably run X-rays. Even if he had something on him, you might not have spotted it. But if he did, it still might be there. And that would pinpoint his location for all the wrong people." Her expression was deadly serious. "And if he doesn't remember who did this to him, he probably won't know who he has to steer clear of."

Dinah nodded slowly. "His memory isn't totally gone, though. He knew I was Black Canary. He knows about the Justice League. He was… shocked when I told him he was Batman, but I didn't have to explain to him who Batman was. Like I told you before, he remembers the facts…"

"But, not the context for them," Barbara finished. "Except for what was starting to come back." She frowned. "So, semantic memory is there, and procedural—that's why he still remembered the door codes—but his episodic memory is," she bit her lip, "more affected." She took another breath. "It's obviously starting to return to him, so let's hope this is all temporary. Meanwhile, we have to find him."

"Would he head for the manor? I don't mean deliberately, but maybe just on instinct?"

"It's a likely possibility," Barbara agreed. "Off the top of my head, I can think of two other sites that he might subconsciously steer toward. One's Crime Alley. The other's more of a long shot, but the only other place in the city where Batman spends any quality time would be the roof of GCPD." She grinned. "I'd consider Wayne Enterprises, but I don't think he spends enough time there for it to factor." I'll tell my dad to watch the roof. And the boys are holed up not too far from Park Row, so either Tim or Roy can check out the alley."

"So, I guess that leaves the manor for me."

"Uh-huh." Her expression turned serious. "Unless you want off this mission."

"Wha-what?"

"I know this isn't going to be easy for you. I can pull you out, send someone else to cover—"

Dinah frowned. "No. Thanks for the offer but… I need to do this. Besides, I'm here already. I know what's going on."

"And if he lashes out again?"

"Then, I'll be ready."

Barbara eyed her searchingly. "Okay. But if you change your mind—"

"I won't."

"Good luck."

Dinah smiled. "Now, that I won't turn down." She chuckled. "I'll take all the luck I can get."

* * *

Two hours later, Bruce still had no idea where he was going. Some unknown force seemed to be drawing him northward, through Coventry, across the Sprang, and onto North Gotham Island. As he plodded along, he couldn't shake the feeling that he knew this neighborhood better than he ought to. He looked around at the cross-section of humanity meandering along the sidewalks. Most were shabbily dressed. Quite a few were pushing grocery carts, filled to overflowing with trash bags, aluminum cans and beer bottles. He could see several people digging in garbage cans and dumpsters. Here and there, he could see others sleeping in doorways.

He frowned. He _did_ know this area… but it wasn't home. There was no comfort here, only pain… thick and palpable like a damp fog. He had to get away from here, before it overpowered him completely. And yet… and yet, something tethered him to these streets. Perhaps he didn't live here now, but he wondered whether he had been _born_ in this part of town. Of course. That would explain why this area both attracted and repelled him. Years ago, it must have been very different. He looked at the architecture. Yes, without the graffiti, minus the trash, if he could picture the broken and boarded-up windows replaced with new panes and the exteriors freshly painted, the Victorian-style townhouses and mews would have portrayed a neighborhood of a far better character. And, juxtaposing what must have been when he was younger with the reality before his eyes, yes, it was small wonder that a part of him felt at home here, even as the rest of him wanted to get as far away as possible.

He continued north, but the heaviness remained. And the frustrating thing about it was, he couldn't recall why.

* * *

Another hour of walking and his feet began to ache. The thin-soled shoes on his feet did little to cushion the impact of the hard asphalt. He could feel blisters forming. Although he tried to ignore the pain which grew progressively worse with each step, stoicism finally yielded to sense and he stepped off the road and onto the verge. Almost immediately, he noticed an improvement. He pressed on.

He took stock of his surroundings, searching for something familiar. When he'd crossed the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge, the urban jungle had yielded immediately to green fields, tall hedges, and high security fences. Geographically, it was only a short distance from the slums he'd passed through previously, but the contrast was shocking.

This area didn't appear _un_familiar to him, but he couldn't say that any feature of the landscape stood out for him, either. Did he pass by this neighborhood frequently, without really paying attention to the scenery? He closed his eyes for a moment. This was so frustrating! He knew that he was heading in the right direction, but he had no idea of his destination, nor of what he would do when he got there… or whether he would even recognize it when he did.

He rounded another bend in the road and found himself walking past tall elm trees, which stood on either side of the highway, branches arching overhead and nearly meeting in the middle. _It's almost impossible to see the stars here, at night._ He paused. At night? Did he… pass this way more often after dark? He tried to imagine what this road might look like then. The lights were fairly spread out along this stretch. If a car were driving along with its headlights off, its visibility would be significantly hampered here. He looked back the way he'd come. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed. In the distance, he could see a car coming towards him. It was probably of no concern, but he drew back cautiously into the trees.

A few moments later, he was glad that he had. He recognized the car—he'd been in it only a few hours earlier. And that had been Dinah at the wheel. She hadn't spotted him.

Bruce hesitated. Evidently, she knew where he was headed, even if he didn't. Perhaps he should continue ahead—since in all likelihood, whatever he was looking for still lay before him. He considered it. Slowly, he shook his head. He had no interest in seeing Dinah again, nor of listening to anything she might say. And if she was now standing between him and his destination, then it was time to change destinations.

He waited a few minutes longer, to ensure that the car was not doubling back. Then he turned around and began to retrace his steps toward Crime Alley.

* * *

The first thing Dick saw when he opened his eyes was a gray stone ceiling. He turned his head quickly and saw dark brown bricks. His head was pounding as he tried to think back. He'd been in… _Arkham._ Dick fought down a rising swell of panic. He was in one of the cells in the Intake unit. He turned his head to the other side and his breath caught. _Not the Intake unit, at all_, he realized. He knew where this had to be. From what that doctor had told him…

_Even drugged, he remembered, he'd put up one hell of a fight, but they'd finally gotten the straightjacket on him. All the while, the hunchbacked doctor had looked on with a gloating smile. He'd been the last to leave the cell after the orderlies had trooped out. As he'd administered the final injection, he'd pulled a very familiar domino mask out of the pocket of his lab coat._

"_You won't need this any longer, Monsieur Lunaire."_

_Dick had struggled to explain that he wasn't this 'Lunaire' person, but whatever they'd shot him with had made his tongue swell up so badly that he hadn't been able to do anything but drool._

"_Please, Monsieur," the doctor continued, "you must allow the sedatives time to work." He smiled again, but the smile did nothing to reassure Dick. "You won't need them for long," he'd continued. "Just until after your_… lobotomie_."_

As the doctor walked off, chortling, Dick had found, to his horror, that he couldn't even summon enough energy to make a last-ditch effort to get free. But inside his mind, he had been shrieking.

And now, he was lying on a cot, only a few feet away from the medical equipment. He had to get out of here! He struggled to his feet and tried to walk, but his feet seemed to get in the way of each other and he stumbled and fell heavily to the concrete floor.

"Dick!" Robin ran toward him. "You okay?"

He tried to stand again, but he was too far from the bed, and there was nothing else nearby that he could use to help pull himself up. "We gotta get outta here," he managed. "Fast. 'Fore someone comes."

Confusion flitted across the younger man's face, then gave way to comprehension. He placed both hands on Dick's shoulders. "It's alright," he said. "Relax. This isn't Arkham. We're in Batcave Five."

Dick blinked. "Batcave… Five?" He repeated. "You got me out of Arkham?"

"Roy did."

"Roy?"

Tim began to look nervous. "Yeah. Are you okay?"

Dick nodded slowly. "I think so. Head's throbbing, though." He grimaced. "They… drugged me."

Someone laughed. "You bet they did. How else were they going to get you to stay put, Robbie?" Roy strode into view. "Feeling better?"

A wave of dizziness washed over him. "I'll get back to you."

"Only place you're getting back to right now is bed." Roy attempted to guide him back to the cot.

"Can't." He fought to clear his mind. "They grabbed me in New York… brought me to Gotham. So… it's about… Bruce. Gotta warn him."

"Got to find him first," Tim said. "We're working on it."

"I'll help."

"You'll rest," Roy countered. "Or I'm telling Alfred."

Dick sniffed. "Very funny."

"Do I look like I'm kidding around? Those drugs aren't out of your system, yet. You've got enough to deal with on that front alone. Now get back to bed before I start thinking up things I can threaten to do if you don't." He grinned. "Even in the shape you're in, you've got to know that you won't like it when I start getting imaginative."

Had Dick possessed Superman's heat vision, the look that he shot Roy would have burned two precise holes through the red-haired archer. When the sole effect of his glower proved to be causing Roy to grab one of his arms while motioning to Tim to take the other, Dick gave in.

"Another hour," he said.

"What?"

Dick nodded to Tim. "I'll lie here for another hour. Then, you're going to fill me in."

"Agreed," Roy said before Tim could respond. "As long as you're awake for it."

After they'd managed to get Dick settled again, Roy motioned to Tim to follow him to another part of the cave, well out of their companion's hearing.

"He thought this was Arkham when he woke up," Tim said quietly.

Roy snorted. "Batman always was a lousy interior decorator. Maybe this'll push him to hire someone after this is all over." His expression grew serious.

"Oracle called," the archer continued. "Dinah found Bruce, but he gave her the slip." He gave the younger man a brief rundown. "Stay here with Dick," he continued. "If he dozes off again, you might have to remind him where he is once he wakes up. I'm going to keep an eye on the alley, for now."

Tim nodded. "Maintain radio contact. If you find Bruce, Dick's going to want to know."

"Will do."

* * *

Tim waited until Dick was resting once more on the cot. Then, biting his lip, he walked toward the computer center.

He'd been typing for about twenty minutes before Oracle appeared in the upper right quadrant of his screen.

"Busy?"

"Antsy," Tim admitted. "Roy told me what to expect from Dick as the Thorazine wears off, but I'm trying to figure out if that's all they gave him." He grimaced. "I mean, Roy knows something about all this, but he's no doctor."

The computer pinged, announcing a file download.

"Next time, ask!" Barbara laughed. "I've read it," she added, sobering. "You can see for yourself, that's all they administered."

"If the report is accurate."

Barbara sighed. "The report is pretty thorough. If you read what the next step of his treatment was supposed to be—"

Tim's jaw dropped. "Oh, my G—"

"If they included that detail, it doesn't make sense that they'd leave out one of the meds."

Tim sighed. "That's something, anyway." He paused. "Was there something you were calling about?"

"I was checking Bruce's files for recent activity," she said. "I wanted to see if Black Glove had managed to download anything before you locked down the systems."

"And?" He felt perspiration beading on his forehead.

"Well, they didn't copy any files, and they didn't transmit anything out."

Tim exhaled. "So, everything's fine."

"I didn't say that." Oracle took a deep breath. "They slipped something _in_."

* * *

Night was falling by the time Bruce made it back to Park Row. It was quieter now, eerily so. Most of the residents were behind locked doors for the evening, while those who were not were keeping to the shadows. Although nobody approached him, Bruce sensed that he was being observed, sized up, and passed over.

He tried to remember the last time he'd eaten. They'd given him breakfast before kicking him out of the hospital. Apart from a cup of coffee at the 'safehouse', though, he'd had nothing since. His stomach rumbled. He needed to find food and shelter, that much was sure. His steps grew heavier as a miasma of sadness seemed to surround him. With every step, his mood darkened as he drew closer to… to… where exactly was he going again?

A memory surfaced. Yesterday, he'd been here with Honor. And Honor had told him that if he walked eight blocks from… from… They'd been standing in front of… the MM Good Donuts! He could see the logo in the distance. Bruce quickened his pace, as he recalled what the homeless man had said. _Come eleven o'clock tonight, walk eight blocks in that direction and tell Lone Eye Lincoln… Honor Jackson sent you…_

* * *

"Tim?"

Dick stepped carefully into view. Tim noticed that he was sticking close to the wall. Every few seconds, he rested one hand against it to steady himself. He was trying to look casual about it, but it was obvious that walking was an effort.

"Feeling better?"

Dick smiled ruefully. "Truth? I was feeling better when I was doped to the gills. Right now, I feel like hell. _But_," he raised a finger for emphasis, "since that means whatever they gave me is starting to wear off, let's just say that I _am_ better—appearances to the contrary, and all." He winced. "Mind you, if you've got another chair… I think it might be a good idea for me to sit down."

Tim kicked the wheeled swivel chair across the floor toward him. Dick sank into it gratefully. He closed his eyes and, with one hand, massaged his forehead. "Thanks," he said quietly. "For getting me out of there. Another few hours and…"

"Don't thank me, thank Roy," Tim cut in. "The whole thing was his doing—I didn't even get out of the car." He took a deep breath. "I know it was a close call."

"Oracle told you?"

"Hey!" Tim put on an injured air. "I do know a _little_ something about computer hacking. I don't have to depend on her for everything, you know."

"She punched through their security while you were still trying to decipher the preliminary coding."

Tim sighed. "That's about the size of it."

Dick placed his hands on the armrests and wheeled himself closer. "Catch me up."

"In a nutshell? The main cave has been compromised, someone tampered with the computers, Bruce got taken out early with a mix of street drugs, and he's now wandering somewhere in Gotham, minus his memories. We'll find him," he added quickly. "Roy and Dinah are out looking now. Oh, and I've implemented the Salem Protocol," he said at a rush.

Dick nodded slowly. "Sounds like a good idea." He winced. "At least it does to me in the state I'm in."

"I didn't have much choice, after Black Glove turned the cave's defenses against us."

Dick mulled that over. "I think you'd better give me the longer version, now."

Tim hesitated. "You sure you're up for it?"

"We'll know in a minute. Start talking."

* * *

"Lone-Eye Lincoln?" Bruce approached the shadowy figure with some trepidation. He was a day late for whatever rendezvous Honor had set up, and he had no way of knowing whether the man standing under the hoarding was the person he was looking for.

The person whom he was addressing looked up, and walked forward several paces, but remained clear of the street lamp. "Who he?" The man demanded. "Is there a problem, officer?"

_Officer_? Bruce shook his head. "I'm not a cop," he said wearily. "Look at me. Honor said I'd find what I needed here."

The other man blinked. "Honor? Honor _Jackson_?" He snorted. "You been rollin' with _that_ dude, you need hardcore medication. Honor Jackson died… lessee… two… or mebbe three… no, no _two_ days ago. Blew a hundred bucks on smack and went out like a king."

_A hundred…?_ His thoughts reeled even as a memory flashed into his mind, bright as a magnesium flare—a memory of his hand reaching into the pocket of an expensive suit, pulling out a stingray leather wallet and handing a one hundred-dollar bill to a homeless man. _Honor!_ And Bruce had been on his way to…

…As quickly as the door to his recollections had opened, it slammed shut once more. Bruce shook his head. If he'd given Honor that hundred, then… _then he'd had money and a home less than three days ago._ He _couldn't_ have gone from that state to this one so quickly. It wasn't possible. _And how was it possible that Honor could have helped him yesterday, if he was already…_

Bruce shook his head. "No. I met him yesterday morning… he saved my life. He told me to come to… to… this place…" His breath caught. "I know this place."

The man, whom Bruce assumed was Lone-Eye Lincoln after all, smiled tolerantly. "Crime Alley. Hell's main drag. But don't sweat," he added, as he bounced a small bag in the palm of his hand. "I got the keys to Heaven right here." He tossed the bag to Bruce.

Bruce caught it automatically, then stared at Lincoln, eyes wide.

Lincoln shrugged. "You know a better way to take away the pain?" He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Bruce standing there, only a yard or so away from the mouth of a dark alley.

Pain. He knew all about pain, didn't he? Drugs weren't the answer, obviously—they'd only mask it. Masks. He knew about those, too. Intellectually, he knew that he should throw the bag away, but something stayed his hand. The glow of the street lamp was suddenly too bright for him, and he ducked quickly into the alley.

When Roy happened on the spot some twenty minutes later, he discovered Bruce, standing just within the narrow lane, still staring at the bag held aloft in one shaking hand.

* * *

"How," Dick started. He stopped, frowning and shook his head. "No, that's the wrong question. _Who_ could hack the bat-computers?"

"Oracle, for one," Tim said. "Or… me. Or even Bruce."

Dick shook his head. "They grabbed him, did something to his mind and… made him hack the computers so…" He broke off. "I know I'm still not thinking clearly, but that doesn't make any sense." His eyes narrowed. "Unless…" He snapped his fingers. "Post-hypnotic suggestion! Without reinforcement, it fades. So, someone grabs Bruce," his face fell, "overrides every mental technique he mastered in the Far East to make him do something totally foreign to his character at some point in the future, and…" He passed his hand over his forehead, "not one of us notices. And… no. It doesn't make sense."

Tim looked up. "But the computers have been compromised before," he pointed out. "Remember when Hush rigged them to influence Bruce subliminally?"

"With Harold's help," Dick countered. "Harold's dead."

"Guys," Oracle interrupted, "can I cut in for a sec?"

"You have something?" Tim asked.

"Just a thought. It's always harder to start up a program from scratch than to maintain an existing one. If the old one worked so well…"

"You think Hush is involved?"

"He's been in Gotham, and recently. Not that location means anything in cyberspace," Barbara added.

A soft ping drew Tim's attention to a small pop-up window. The new anti-virus update was ready to download. He was about to click on 'accept' when Dick stopped him. "What?"

"Just a hunch," Dick said. "Babs, are you hooked up to the computers in the main cave?"

"I can be. What do you need?"

"Can you give me a log of all the files that Bruce would have downloaded from the net, going back," he thought for a moment, "going back to the time he and Tim returned to Gotham, last year?"

"Last year?" Barbara sounded thoughtful. "It may not be in the main databanks, then. I'll have to search nearline storage backups, too." She paused for a moment. Then, her voice brightened. "Sure, just give me a few minutes." She grinned. "You onto something?"

"I'm not sure," Dick admitted. "But why go to all the trouble of breaking into a house, when you can get someone to open a door for you?"

Tim frowned. "You mean by sending some kind of Trojan virus? But Bruce uses the most cutting-edge anti-virus software there is." He looked up at the screen. "Babs, y_ou_ write the programs, for crying out loud!"

"I wrote the initial programs, sure. But not the upgrades. I let some copies of an early version fall into the hands of a few Waynetech programmers, and they've been modifying it ever since."

"So," Tim turned to Dick, "you think there's a mole at WE?"

Dick raised an eyebrow. "At any given time, there are between one and six moles at WE. Bruce knows who they are, and controls what they find out. No… I was thinking more of a spoof site."

Tim leaned forward in his chair, then settled back down. "Okay. I know what those are, but what do you—"

"Here you go," Oracle interrupted. "Took less time than I thought."

"Thanks!" He began to scroll down through the flickering lines of green type.

"Dick," Barbara asked after a few minutes, "you know, this might go faster if you told me what you were looking for…"

"I'll know it when I see it, Babs," Dick said. "Is this all?"

"No, this is about three week's worth. There's loads more." Her voice softened. "You sure you can concentrate enough for this?"

Dick hesitated. "Can you narrow it down to files coming from any url related to Aegis Exclusive?"

"Not a problem."

The display went dark for a moment, then came back up.

Dick nodded. "Thanks again." He went back to scrolling. Five minutes later, he stopped. "You see that?" He asked Tim.

Tim looked where he was pointing. "WT Aegis Exclusive," he replied. "Yeah, that's WayneTech's program. So?"

"You still have the popup for the upgrade notification we got on this system?"

Tim nodded.

"Click it. Then click on the one I just showed you and compare the urls."

Tim obeyed. Then his jaw dropped. "The one in the log is WT Aegis," he started to say.

"And the alert we got here is for W_E _Aegis." Dick smiled grimly. "It's also a 'dot-_net_' instead of a 'dot-_com_'. And the time of day when it was downloaded," he added, "was five-seventeen a.m. Bruce would have been back from patrol and almost finished logging his reports. Most mornings he _is_ finished by then, so he must have had a long night."

Tim keyed instructions. "Whoever sent this program knew it," he said after a moment. "There's coding in here—it _only_ pops up between five-fifteen and six-forty-five a.m. That's a time that Bruce would only be in the cave if…"

"If he were exhausted and pushing himself." Dick closed his eyes. "WayneTech or Wayne Enterprises. Net or Com. It's so easy to confuse them. And when he clicked the link…"

"He got routed to another site entirely," Tim said. "Look, it's even got the Wayne Enterprises webpage layout." He frowned, incredulous. "Right down to WE's actual contact phone numbers and email address. You know, I think this would fool me, wide awake."

"It's a spoof site," Dick reminded him. "It's meant to fool people into thinking they've clicked on the real McCoy. And this is a very good one."

He looked at Tim and then up at Barbara's image. "Can you figure out what he downloaded here?"

"It'll take time." Barbara and Tim spoke in unison. They smiled, a bit self-consciously. "Look," Barbara said, "as important as it might be to find out the answer to that, it's not the main priority. Finding Bruce, stopping Black Glove… those are your primary goals. I'll tackle this, on an isolated terminal—where I won't risk infecting any of my own systems. If there's something in there that might help us figure out how to snap Bruce back to normal, I'll let you know. Otherwise…"

"We need to focus more on fixing the problem than analyzing it. Got it."

A new window popped up. Tim swore softly. "I was hoping I was wrong."

"What?"

"See for yourself." The window showed a frequency domain graph. Dick looked at the two spiky wavelines rolling slowly across the screen. Superimposed over the data, read the legend: correlation—96.41 per cent.

Dick felt another attack of dizziness and closed his eyes, waiting for it to pass.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. I should probably lie down again in a minute. What is that?"

"While we were talking, I asked the computer to compare the current programming with the stuff Harold did in the cave a couple of years ago. As you can see, the odds are pretty good that they were programmed by the same person."

"Harold."

"Yeah."

Dick took a deep breath. "So Hush's return to Gotham a couple of weeks ago wasn't a coincidence." He exhaled slowly. "I think this just got a lot more complicated."


	4. Chapter 4: Heart of a Dark Knight

Thanks to Debbie, Jules and Aiyokusama for the beta! Thanks to John Westcott for fight choreography help!

"You Can Always Reach Me" written by Bentley, Shapiro and Teren. Recorded by Amanda Stott (_Amanda Stott_, Wea International, 2000).

_When my hopes are fading  
When I'm in way too deep  
If my faith is shaken  
You can always reach me  
In the heart of a dark knight  
When all reason leaves me  
When the walls get too high  
You can always reach me  
_

_--Bentley, Shapiro, and Teren, "You Can Always Reach Me"_

* * *

**Chapter 4: Heart of a Dark Knight**

Roy sized up the situation automatically. He wasn't sure what was in the paper bag, but from where he was standing, it looked pretty full. Odds were good that Bruce hadn't sampled the contents yet. He felt a momentary relief, before he realized that Bruce hadn't tossed the bag away either. He took a deep breath.

"Hi, Bruce. How's it going?"

Bruce's eyes, which had been squeezed shut a moment ago, snapped open. "What do you want?"

"Just to talk," Roy said easily. "For now."

Bruce gave a noncommittal grunt in response.

_Leave it to the Bat not to make this easy_. Roy had talked people down before, but he'd never imagined doing it with Bruce.

_And a few years ago, Ollie never would've imagined you were hooked on heroin. Forget about Batman. The guy standing in front of you is a man with a problem. Nothing less, nothing more._

A pair of spiked-haired youths in chains and black leather peered curiously into the alley. Roy shot them a cold look, and they moved on quickly.

"This isn't exactly the best place to have a conversation," he said. "Maybe we could head into Burger Barn and I'll get you a cup of coffee?"

Bruce leaned back against the brick wall and shook his head. "No."

_That figured_, Roy thought. Memories or no memories, he was the same suspicious, paranoid, controlling, son of a… He paused. "Okay. I'm open to suggestions. You have somewhere else in mind?"

For what seemed an eternity, Bruce didn't reply. Then, "I can't."

Roy waited until he was sure he could keep his tone neutral. "Can't?"

His brow furrowed. "As long as I stay here…" Bruce explained haltingly, "I can fight. I'm more… _me_ in this place than anywhere else I've been today." He snorted. "Whoever I am."

"You don't know?"

Bruce shook his head. "I know my name, but I don't know… myself." He exhaled. "It's… frustrating."

"Sounds like it." Roy thought for a moment. "You hungry? There's a hotdog cart on the corner. I can bring you one to eat here. My treat." He watched Bruce consider the offer.

"One," Bruce said finally. "Mustard, pickles, corn relish. And a bottle of water."

"Comin' right up."

When Roy returned five minutes later, Bruce hadn't left his spot, but he had slid to a sitting position. Roy knelt to hand him the hotdog.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Bruce let the dimebag drop to his lap. He took the hotdog in both hands. An eyebrow lifted. "Is this truly healthier than…" his gaze flickered down to the drugs.

Roy grinned. "Just a bit. Honest."

Bruce didn't answer. He was too busy consuming his first solid food in over twelve hours. Roy waited until he'd finished the hotdog and drained the plastic water bottle before he spoke again. "Mind if I ask you a question?"

Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Of course: the catch."

Roy held up his hands, palms up. "No catch. You don't want to answer, you don't have to. I'm just wondering about that stuff in the bag. I mean, you're not using it. It's obvious you don't want to. But you're still holding on to it."

Bruce picked up the bag again and weighed it experimentally in his hand. "When I woke up, two days ago," he said slowly, "it was… unpleasant. But I could recall… glimmers of what I was feeling prior." His blue eyes took on a new intensity. "I… hurt," he said quietly. "I have since I found myself in the street. And all that I can clearly recall from my life before that moment… is that being in pain is not… unfamiliar to me. But when I was…" He closed his eyes and seemed to shrink into the shadows.

"I'm not a fool," he said, in a voice barely louder than a whisper. "I know what this is. I know what it can do. What it _will_ do. But it… or something like it… made the pain stop. For the first time in years, I… stopped hurting." His grip tightened on the bag. "Is it so wrong to want to… not be in pain?"

"No," Roy said quietly. "Of course not. Except… you know what the catch is for this one." He started to lay a hand on Bruce's shoulder, but the other man shied away. Roy let the hand fall back to his side and continued. "If you want it to take away the pain, then you have to let it take over your _life_."

Bruce flinched.

Sensing his advantage, Roy pressed on. "It might not happen right away. Some people can keep it under control for a little while, but sooner or later, it steps into the driver's seat and it doesn't get out again." He paused. "But you already know that," he continued, a moment later. "You've read the statistics. You know that it's got nothing to do with 'strong' or 'weak' or 'willpower' or…"

"Enough."

Bruce rose stiffly to his feet and beckoned to Roy to follow him further into the alley. "We'd gotten about this far…" he said slowly, stopping almost midway through the narrow passage. "Then he… stepped out of the shadows… with a gun." His breath was coming harder now as his tone grew more agitated. "He demanded my father's wallet and then… he went for the… the pearls." He turned a furious countenance to Roy. "Do you know what happened next?"

Roy nodded. Dick had told him ages ago.

"Until a moment ago," Bruce said raggedly, "I didn't. Or at least… the memory was blocked from me. I knew _something_ had happened here, but I didn't know what. I only knew that I had… l-lost something irreplaceable here." His voice grew softer. "I… dislike feeling vulnerable. It would be easy for me to avoid that emotional state. All I need to do," he said slowly, "is…" He lifted the bag again. His tone hardened. "I could do this. Easily. But masking the _feeling_ of vulnerability would not make me stronger." He shook his head. "It would blind me to the truth, and that blindness would _weaken_ me." Bruce stretched a hand out before him, as though, Roy thought, he was trying to touch the images in his newly awakened memories.

He turned back to Roy, eyes haunted, but backed by a renewed strength of purpose. "I still don't remember much," he admitted, "but one thing that I do know is that using this," he held the bag aloft, "would be an act of weakness. It would dishonor my parents' legacy." He drew back his arm, the bag still tightly clenched in his grip. "And I," his voice grew louder with each syllable, "am _stronger… than THIS!_" He threw the small paper sack as far as he could.

An instant later, a small missile pierced the bag in mid-air. The bag burst into flames and an odor like burning plastic filled the alley. A moment later, there was nothing left of it save a few charred wisps of paper, which were well on their way to becoming ashes.

Bruce whirled around in time to see Roy lowering a small crossbow. "I didn't want to take any chances," the archer said.

"Understandable." There was a part of him that still might have run to pick up the bag, had it landed intact.

Roy started to say something else, but Bruce checked him.

"There'll be time for talk later. Let's get out of here." Without waiting for an answer, he walked quickly out of the alley.

Roy followed a half-pace behind.

* * *

Two pairs of eyes looked up as the newcomers entered. "Bruce!" Dick called out. "Roy."

Bruce gave a stiff nod. He took in his new surroundings stoically, and it was impossible to tell whether he recognized the cave.

Dick's eyes glanced past Bruce to where Roy was rapidly, but discreetly, signing a message.

_He still hasn't remembered everything, but it's coming back slowly._

Dick nodded and took a step forward. Tim followed

Bruce eyed them searchingly. "I'm… Alright, I recognize the costume." He turned to Tim. "I suppose you're Robin." He turned to Dick. _Street clothes_, he winced. _No hints there. _"I'm sorry. I should know you, but…" he spun around to frown at Roy. "This is pointless. You should have waited for more of my memory to come back before bringing me he—" He broke off as Dinah came into view. "Oh, this is just perfect."

Dinah took a deep breath. "Hi, Bruce."

Bruce spun around. "I have nothing to say to you."

"That's okay. You don't have to talk," Dinah said quickly. "But I… I hope you'll listen."

"To what?" He whirled back to face her. "You're _sorry,_ and you'll never do anything like it again? Spare me."

"Look, I don't blame you for—"

"For being upset? For wanting to leave? Wonderful. Then you'll understand why I'll be on my way, now."

"Bruce…"

"Did I leave anything out? Were you planning on giving me excuses, after all?"

"No! What happened was inexcusable—"

"And unforgivable. Good. We understand each other."

Dinah recoiled as if he had slapped her.

Bruce took note of her reaction, then turned again and headed for the door. Roy was barring his path. "Get out of my way," he snarled as a slender hand came down on his shoulder from behind.

"Bruce." Dinah's voice was steady.

She barely dodged the blow in time.

Wide-eyed, Bruce stared at his fist, as though his hand was somehow a separate entity. If he had struck with that level of force… The color drained from his face. He had almost… he could have… He looked at Dinah again, and saw that she too was processing what had just transpired. "I…" He started to say. "I…" _I didn't mean to use potentially lethal force on you? It was an accident? _The irony of the situation engulfed his sensibilities… just as Dinah landed a high kick to his jaw.

Bruce's head snapped back, and he staggered, but regained his center before his opponent could follow up with another savate _souplesse_ _de lateral_. His hand shot forward, catching her upraised heel.

Dinah didn't hesitate. She brought her other foot up into the air sweeping in a wide arc, catching Bruce at the back of his head. Both tumbled to the stone floor and the fight began in earnest.

"Stay back," Tim cautioned Dick. "I don't think you're up to this, yet."

"Neither are you," Roy cut in. "Let them work it out."

"But they—"

"Need to get through this without our interference," Dick nodded to Roy, as he placed a warning hand on Tim's shoulder. "Besides, you _don't_ want to get caught between those two, right now. Trust me."

On a normal day, it wouldn't have been much of a fight. Bruce's first move would have neutralized her canary cry. After that, Dinah might have gotten one or two good punches in, possibly even a toss, before Bruce took her down. And it was mostly due to the rigorous training she'd taken in the last couple of years that she would have landed those punches in the first place.

Now, they were more evenly matched. Bruce still had his combat skills, but he hadn't used them against an opponent who knew how to fight back. His reflexes were just a fraction slower than they should have been—just enough to cost him—just enough to give Dinah a fair chance.

There was something more, though. He hadn't wanted to attack her, and he didn't want this fight. He didn't have the total commitment to victory that might have given him an edge. After a few moments of moves, blocks, and countermoves, he realized that Dinah showed signs of that same reluctance. She hadn't even tried to use the cry—and he'd given her a few opportunities.

Was she… giving him a chance to strike out at her? He rolled over, pinning her shoulders to the ground. Fire met ice, as two sets of blue eyes clashed. His eyebrows shot up. A small answering smile played on her lips. Then, she brought her knees up quickly to his midsection, and broke away.

"Not… bad…" Bruce grunted as he feinted for her eyes.

"I've been… practicing." She braced herself on the ground with the palm of her hand, and aimed a capoeira kick at his chest.

He rolled with the kick and came back with one of his own. "Attacking you was a reflex."

"I figured." She ducked, somersaulted, and landed in a half-crouch. "_After_ my own instincts kicked in."

"Ah."

"I should have stood up for you," she said as he blocked another strike. "Even if I would've been outvoted."

He took her arm, drew her over his hip, and tossed her. "That's right. You should have."

"Apologies won't change the past." She pulled him down after her.

He rolled her onto her stomach and twisted an arm behind her back. "Correct."

"I'm still sorry. Even if it doesn't fix anything."

Bruce mulled that over.

From her position, Dinah couldn't see his expression change, but the three other men in the room did.

"Bruce?" Dick asked. "What's…" _Wrong? What _isn't_ wrong?_

Bruce's narrowed eyes still focussed on Dinah. "You lead the Justice League," he stated. "I'm… _in_ the League. Which means that despite knowing what you did, I was willing to trust you." He released her arm and moved away. "There's a lot that hasn't come back to me yet," he admitted. "But it seems to me that my judgement would have been less impaired when I had my memories intact."

He rose and helped her to her feet. "I think," he sighed, "we've both wasted enough time being foolish. Now, we need to get down to business."

Dinah's eyes opened wide. "_Both?_"

Bruce was already heading for the computer station.

"Does this mean we're friends again?" She called as she followed.

"No…" Bruce said slowly, without turning. "But we aren't enemies. Leave it at that, for now."

* * *

Barbara had nothing new to report. Whatever files Bruce had downloaded from the spoof site had overwritten portions of his existing codes and inserted new directives, but she was still working to establish what those changes had accomplished. One thing was certain: the new programming had been running for over six months.

Bruce listened impassively. Then, he retreated to one of the sleeping alcoves to assimilate it all. He couldn't remember any of this, and yet, he must have done it. He had allowed something to infiltrate his systems, only instead of wiping his _computer's_ hard drive… His frown deepened. He was fairly sure that he didn't frighten easily. He wouldn't be Batman if he did. But this had _rattled_ him to his core.

A light tap on the wall roused him from his thoughts. He looked up to see the older of the two young men who had been present when he'd come back with Roy. "Mind if I join you?"

The bed he was using as a bench was certainly long enough to accommodate another person. Bruce slid down a few inches. "I'm supposed to know you," he said. "Aren't I?"

The newcomer's smile didn't quite mask the hurt in his eyes. "Well, I was hoping you would. My name's Dick." He paused. "Dick Grayson."

Bruce closed his eyes, thinking. "So far," he said slowly, "nobody's mentioned my surname. But I imagine it would be 'Wayne'?"

Dick nodded. "You remembered that?"

"Not in the way you're hoping," Bruce said. "I know that Bruce Wayne adopted Dick Grayson. If everyone is calling _me_ 'Bruce', and you say that I know you_…_" He looked away. "I'm sorry. This situation is… frustrating for me but," he paused, "it must be… painful," he finished awkwardly, "for you."

Dick let out a long breath. "I'll get over it. And you'll remember." He grinned, and added, "Not necessarily in that order."

Bruce's lips twitched. "And this was done to me? Deliberately? I didn't just… hit my head? Or… or have a stroke?"

"Well, if you were in the hospital," Dick said, "they should've caught something like that. I think, for a stroke, they have to keep you for observation for a couple of days. But, anyway, we got a copy of your medical file. Physiologically, you're fine."

"I had to ask," Bruce said, "if only to rule out the possibility. But, I do believe that my condition is more than happenstance."

Dick nodded. "Mind if I ask what brought you to that conclusion?"

"First," Bruce said, "I woke up on the street. That _could_ have happened if I'd been…" What was Bruce's—_his_—reputation, again? "If I'd been partying or," _if he'd been Batman_, "under cover. But, if it was the former, I doubt I would have changed my clothes. And if it was the latter, I wouldn't have knowingly taken drugs." He looked sharply at Dick. "I _don't_ use them," he said with conviction. "Do I?"

Dick gripped his forearm. "No way."

Bruce sighed with relief. "Good." And yet, from the depths of his memories, he thought he heard his own voice saying, "_Need help. Your help… Want you to lock me in the cave. Don't let me out for a month, no matter what._" The hopelessness in that phantom voice, the despair, the… his expression hardened. This only bolstered his theory.

"Second," he said, "every memory that's returned on its own, without someone's prompting it, what the League did to me, my parents' murder…" _the thought that just sprang to mind_, "shares a common thread. They all remind me of times when I have _not_ been in control. When people whom I trusted turned on me… abandoned me." _He'd had to beg…who? Someone… to come back and help him, that last time._ "Times when I've been… helpless. If the only memories that I have are of people I relied on betraying that trust, then it would be natural for me to shy away from the people whom—I suspect—are my true allies." His eyes narrowed. "If I were the person who'd done this to me, I think I'd prefer that my… target be isolated, fearful, suspicious..."

Dick nodded again.

"Third, even when it would have helped your case, nobody here has been less than honest with me."

"And we won't be," Dick said. "Though I reserve the right to plead the fifth if you ask something I don't want to deal with."

_And that, too, was an honest answer_. Bruce smiled wearily. "So, if I'm Batman, and I've met Robin… you're Nightwing?"

Dick grinned. "Got it in one." His expression turned serious. "Did you want me to try to help you remember more?"

Bruce thought about it. "Facts aren't the problem. It's the… experiences."

"I understand." An idea occurred to him. "We met when I was nine," he said softly. "You were in the audience at Haly's circus on the night that…"

* * *

"Barbara thinks she found it," Dinah interrupted a few minutes later. "And she's not happy."

Dick gulped theatrically. "So she wants us back at the main terminal to listen."

"She does." Her expression sobered. "There's a problem."

"You're kidding!"

Dinah gave the younger man a playful clout on his ear. She looked at Bruce. "There's a trigger phrase that set this whole thing in motion. We… haven't been able to determine whether hearing it a second time will do nothing, restore your memory, or wipe out what you've gotten back."

Bruce considered. "Which option would be the most probable?"

"We can't tell," Dinah admitted. "Not without a visit to S.T.A.R. Labs' Neurosciences Division. And even then, we may just be making a more educated guess." She bit her lip. "Sorry. Babs was saying that if it were only a computer issue, it would be easy. But when you're dealing with the brain…"

"If we had all the answers, there wouldn't be a need for places like Arkham," Dick muttered. "Bruce," he added, "it's up to you. Some of it _is_ coming back. The rest will, too."

"You hope," Bruce said. "But there are other considerations. Specifically, the patterns emerging in the memories I've regained thus far. It could be coincidence. But if those patterns are being… _engineered_, then I believe I'd prefer to forge my own." He took a deep breath. "Let's go hear what she has to say."

* * *

"It can't be just subliminals affecting you," Barbara explained. "Even Checkmate is light-years away from being able to pull something like this off."

Tim frowned. "Amnesia can be induced, though."

"Not this selectively. And the trigger phrase," she shook her head and looked at Bruce. "It's been programmed into your computers, and it's obviously the key, but I'm not sure what it does."

"Post-hypnotic suggestion?" Dinah asked.

"Maybe, but the initial hypnosis would have to be pretty recent. Suggestions fade over time, and the longest recorded instance of one lasting—and that's with regular reinforcement, mind you—is something like six months." She paused. "More to the point, most post-hypnotic suggestions are concrete and specific. For example, if someone is undergoing hypnosis to…" she broke off for a moment, "to stop biting their fingernails, the hypnotist may tell them that once they 'wake up' every time they bite their nails, it'll taste like soap. By the time the suggestion fades, the bad habit's probably been broken." She glanced at Bruce again. "This is a bit more sophisticated. I don't think a trigger phrase alone could accomplish it."

"And you don't know what it might accomplish," Bruce said tonelessly.

"Without saying it," Barbara admitted, "no."

Bruce bit his lip. "I'll risk it," he said. His hands were sweating. He looked quickly from one face to the next. "But be prepared," he cautioned, "for anything."

Dick grinned. "I think we're pretty much used to that, by now."

Barbara gave an encouraging smile and spoke three syllables aloud: "zur-en-arrh."

Bruce shrieked.

* * *

"Bruce!" Dick watched in horror as his adoptive father fell to the floor and curled up, trembling in the fetal position.

Bruce was beyond hearing. His eyes screwed shut, his hands clamped tightly against the sides of his head. "Zur-en-arrh!" He moaned. "Zur-en-arrh!"

Dick slid to the floor. "Bruce."

Tim grabbed his shoulder. "What are you doing?"

"Playing a hunch," Dick replied without turning around. "Let go."

"But if he—"_ The Thorazine hadn't finished messing with Dick's reflexes yet and if Bruce were to lash out… _Tim didn't want to finish his thought.

Dick's voice was steady. "_Then_ you and Roy step in. Let go."

The note of command was unmistakable. Robin's hand dropped to his side. He glanced over and caught Roy's eye. The archer didn't look happy, but he wasn't wading in either.

"Bruce," Dick said softly, "remember who you are. Remember _why_ you are. Remember what you do and why you chose to." His voice grew firmer with each 'remember'. "Remember what you told me, even before you started training me for real." He took a deep breath.

Bruce was still lying on his side, knees to chin, but, Dick observed, he had stopped his groaning. The older man seemed to be listening intently.

Dick took another breath. It was now or never. "You made me take an oath," he said. "One that you told me you took a long time earlier. Remember? You had me swear to fight crime and corruption and…"

"N-never swerve from the p-path of justice," Bruce completed in a whisper. His eyes flew open. "Dick? What happened?" He looked around in confusion. "The last thing I remember, I was in the main cave with Jezebel. There was something I needed to pull up from the computers and…" He frowned. "How did I get here? Where's Jezebel? What are they," his gaze slid over Roy and Dinah, doing here? "And for that matter, why aren't _you_ in New York?"

Dick grinned. "Any time you blank out your own memory, I figure it's a good time to pop in for a visit."

"He _what_?" Roy gasped.

"Think about it," Dick said, as he tried to be subtle about inching toward the nearest wall. Getting up was going to prove interesting. "All those practice sessions with J'onn. The techniques he learned in the Far East." He noticed that Tim had drawn closer and was bending down to help him up. He accepted the assistance gratefully. "Jezebel?" He mouthed.

Tim shook his head.

Dick shrugged mentally and turned back to the archer. "Roy," he pointed out, "he's fought off overdoses of _truth serum_. For anyone to do something like this to him, they'd have to know his mind inside-out." Dick staggered to his feet. "I figured we either had a telepath in town who made Psimon look like Clever Hans, or this was self-induced."

"Why?" Dinah asked.

Bruce shook his head slowly. "A failsafe," he said. His eyes met Dick's. "Someone had to be getting close to piercing through those mental shields you were praising a moment ago. Under the circumstances, the most prudent move was to ensure that if those walls fell, there would be nothing useable left behind them." He sighed. "I agree that it was a drastic decision, but it was a necessary one."

"So," Tim said, "what's our next move?"

Bruce allowed himself a fleeting smile. Then it was gone, replaced by a look of grim determination. "We strike back," he declared. "As soon as we know who and what we're dealing with."


	5. Chapter 5: Yesterdays

Thanks to Komikbookvixen for a bit of Strange assistance. Thanks to Jules, Aiyokusama, and Debbie for the beta!

"When You Come Back to Me Again" written by Jenny Yates and Garth Brooks. Recorded by Garth Brooks on _Scarecrow_ (Capitol, 2001).

_Again and again I see_

_My yesterdays in front of me_

_Unfolding like a mystery…_

_--Jenny Yates and Garth Brooks, "When You Come Back to Me Again"._

* * *

**Chapter 5: Yesterdays**

"Let's review what we know," Bruce said. They were all gathered around the console. He and Dick were seated. Tim stood at Dick's right, Roy and Dinah at Bruce's left. Barbara peered out from the upper right quadrant of the main monitor.

"It's Bane all over again," Tim said flatly. "Someone's trying to take you down, bit by bit and coming pretty damned close to succeeding."

Bruce nodded. "The computer, the cave, Alfred… my…" He forced himself to continue. "My mind."

Dick caught the fleeting look of embarrassment before Bruce suppressed it. "He hit hard and fast, and came at you from directions you weren't expecting."

Bruce's eyes narrowed. Dick's fingers hadn't stopped twisting since the young man had sat down. True, the young man usually did have a hard time staying still, but—he glanced down sharply; Dick was also tapping one foot absently on the cave floor. This level of fidgeting was atypical. Also troubling, Dick looked exhausted. He was usually far better at hiding his need for sleep. He'd had to be, Bruce reflected. Otherwise, Robin would rarely have patrolled after ten P.M.

"What's the matter with you?" The question came out more harshly than Bruce had intended.

Dick looked away. "Nothing."

But Bruce had seen the warning look that his first partner had shot Tim and Roy. "Nothing?" He repeated with a hard stare.

Few people alive could endure more than thirty seconds of that look. Dick's agitation didn't show a significant increase until nearly the one-minute mark. He sighed. "Fine. Tim asked me to come in when you stopped responding to your comm-link."

"That explains why you aren't in New York," Bruce snapped. "It doesn't explain why you're practically dancing in your chair. Or why you needed Tim's help to stand, earlier."

"It's not important," Dick mumbled. "I can deal with it."

Bruce's gaze didn't waver. "Tim. What's wrong with him?"

Tim felt a cold sweat break out. "Um… Well… It's like…"

"Tim!"

The younger man gulped. "Ask Roy!"

Dick sighed. "They wanted to use me to get to you. So someone grabbed me in New York and threw me in Arkham… where they doped me up on anti-psychotics. But, Roy got me out, and now I'm just waiting for the stuff to wear off. So, I'm fine."

"Anti-psy—You _let_ them get close enough to…"

"You know, Bruce, you really _don't_ have a lot of room to talk on this one."

"Score one for the Wingster," Roy whispered.

Tim fought back a laugh. Dinah didn't.

Bruce sank back into his chair, still glowering. Dick continued.

"So, anyway, yeah. Looks like I was one of those directions you weren't planning on being attacked from."

"It fits the pattern," Bruce admitted grudgingly. His frown subsided. "They struck at my home, my family, my mind… Everything that makes me… me." His eyebrows drew together. "Which means that they had to already have a good idea of who I was before they began this campaign. They might have picked up some details as they went along, but they would have to have compiled most of their data beforehand."

"We know Hush is involved," Tim said. "So that's no surprise."

"Hush doesn't work alone."

That brought the younger man up short. "When we were in the cave," he said thinking back, "Black Glove was wearing your father's bat-costume. Did Elliot ever see that before?"

Bruce nodded. "Tommy was at the manor when Father walked into the playroom, wearing it. He was hoping to surprise us." He smiled at the memory. "In any event, yes, Tommy would have been there when my father referred to it as a 'bat-man costume'. I've no doubt he would have told this… Black Glove—"

"Sorry," Barbara interrupted. "Just got to correct you, here. I've been doing some digging. 'Black Glove' is the name of the _organization_. The guy leading it seems to be going by 'Doctor Hurt'."

Bruce started forward involuntarily. "Are you sure of that?"

She sighed. "It could be an alias, of course… although there _was_ a Doctor Simon Hurt who disappeared over thirty years ago. Neurologist—" She broke off. She'd rarely seen Bruce that pale when he wasn't slipping into shock. "Why are you asking?"

"Years ago," Bruce said slowly, "I took part in an… experiment. Overseen by one Dr. Hurt—and yes, his first name was 'Simon'. He had in an isolation chamber for ten days. I would never have consented to such a thing had his credentials not checked out, but if you're saying that he had vanished almost a decade earlier…" He frowned. "It might be enlightening to determine whether the imposter tampered with the government databases I would have tapped into when I was vetting the man, or whether he's hacked my systems before."

"Probably the first," Roy commented. "You're not the only guy who'd have checked him out."

"Point." Bruce thought for a moment. "You told me that you and Tim encountered him in the cave. How old did he strike you as?"

Roy made a disgusted sound. "Hard to tell with that mask. But from what I could see, his hair was pretty brown. And the part of his face I did see didn't have any wrinkles on it."

"So he probably _isn't_ the genuine article," Bruce concluded. His frown deepened. "If the trigger-phrase in the computer hadn't incapacitated me, seeing the man in that costume," he felt his face grow hot as his voice fell to a whisper, "might have taken me further off-guard."

"Why stick Dick in Arkham, though?" They'd almost forgotten that Dinah was in the room. She looked at Dick, now. "Sure, it would have kept you from getting to Bruce, but we know that they had access to drugs, which would have kept you out, regardless. Why drag you from New York to Gotham, when they could just as easily have held you there? They also stashed you some place relatively… neutral, when you think about it. I mean, Dr. Arkham isn't part of their gang. And once you started talking to the staff, someone was bound to realize that you didn't belong there."

Dick coughed. "Actually, one of the doctors there is in league with them. Unless scheduling a lobotomy within forty-eight hours of admission is standard procedure. And if it is, why haven't they done it on Joker, yet? Agh!" Dick looked down at his wrist, which suddenly felt like it was sporting a manacle several sizes too small. When he did, he realized that Bruce had his hand clamped around it tightly enough that Dick wondered whether the bone was about to snap.

Bruce followed his gaze. "Sorry." He released him. "You're alright?"

"Yeah, fine," he said, rubbing the area. "Considering. So, that's why they stuck me in Arkham." He frowned. "Although, come to think of it, there's probably another reason, too."

"Which is?" Barbara asked.

Dick looked at Bruce. "Because odds were that in the shape you were in, one way or another, _you_ were going to end up there." He waited for that to sink in. There was no need to elaborate. When Jason Todd had died, Bruce had nearly gone mad with grief. Had someone truly wanted to see a Batman broken or insane, Dick had to admit that Bruce discovering him post-lobotomy would probably have accomplished it.

"Tim told me what happened in Metropolis," Dick said quietly. "When you thought Alexander Luthor had killed me. That right then and there, you nearly killed _him_. Sure, it was heat of the moment—but if something similar happened in Arkham… well, you _would _probably end up helping Black Glove weed out most of their competition. Or die trying." Now it was his turn to grip Bruce's arm. "Or both."

Bruce covered Dick's hand with his own. Then he took a deep breath. "Tommy knew me as a child. And he still knows how to press many of my buttons. But to accomplish something like this, he'd need to enlist the help of someone with greater expertise in general psychology, mind-altering drugs, memory suppression," Bruce frowned. "That narrows it down. Especially since I'm not sure that this expert would be able to achieve everything he did without being aware who I am. And, until now, Tommy hasn't seen fit to expose my secrets to those who don't already know them."

Dick and Tim exchanged dismayed looks. "You know," Tim said, "if we assume Elliot hasn't altered that MO, there's only one name I can think of that meets those criteria."

Bruce nodded as Dick supplied the two-word answer.

"Hugo Strange."

* * *

"Well," Barbara ventured a moment later, "his capabilities definitely fit. But Strange has been off the radar for a couple of years. Wonder where Hush found him."

Bruce grunted. "Can you access the cave security tapes? Jezebel was down there with me before the attack."

Barbara sighed. "Five days ago, you logged your usual report after you got back from patrol. Then, there's nothing until Tim implemented the Salem Protocol. It looks like the Black Glove wiped out anything that might tip their hand to us and then turned off the recording devices."

"She wasn't down there," Tim spoke with quiet assurance. "The first thing I did was run an infra-red scan on the whole subterranean system to make sure that we hadn't missed anyone hiding in the tunnels. The second thing I did was instruct the computer to search and identify all organic material within range." He looked down. "Gordon said you didn't recognize him when GCPD had you in custody. I wanted to rule out the possibility that Black Glove had switched you for a double." He swallowed.

"Reasonable precaution," Bruce nodded, unfazed. "Continue."

"I found traces of blood, hair and skin, but nothing that suggested foul play. Most of it was where you'd expect: in the training area and the medical bay. Also at the computer centre—that's where they had Alfred tied up. And I know you've sat there before, bleeding, while Alfie stitched you up, so I'm discounting it for now. It'll be another few hours minimum before the DNA analysis comes through so we stand a better chance at confirming whose it is. But no, there was no sign of Jezebel; until you mentioned her a little while ago, I didn't even know she'd been in the cave."

Bruce frowned. "I hope I'm wrong."

"About?"

He went on as though he hadn't heard. "…But I don't think I am." He took a deep breath. "I've told you before: always follow the facts, even when they point you where you wish they wouldn't. _Especially_ then. And as distressing as it is for me to think that the Black Glove may be holding her hostage," he closed his eyes, "it doesn't make sense for them to wipe away my memories of her if they meant for me to go searching. And if they meant to kill her," he opened his eyes and looked around bleakly, "there are ample places underground to hide the body. Why would they spirit her away?"

"Maybe they wanted the body found somewhere else," Roy pointed out. "It wouldn't be the first time someone's tried framing you for murder."

Dick leaned forward. "She could also have been their fallback plan in case things went haywire with my capture. One more person they could use to get to you."

"Suddenly, I'm feeling unloved," Tim said sardonically.

"You had your chance," Roy smirked. "The next time Pierrot-Lunatic goes chasing after you on a motorcycle, don't fight back so hard."

The younger crime-fighter blushed. He'd almost forgotten that chase. It felt like it had happened eons ago.

Bruce inhaled again. "They're both possibilities," he agreed, "but, much as it… pains me, I have to explore the probability that she may have left the cave with them, not as a hostage—but as an accomplice."

* * *

"That's it?" Roy sputtered as Bruce strode away without another word. The group watched as he disappeared around the corner, heading toward the gym area. "My girlfriend might be part of the group planning to take me out… I think I'll do some chin-ups?"

Dick shook his head. "I wish I didn't think he'd been half-expecting something like this," he said with a sigh. At Roy's incredulous stare, Dick continued. "He fell in love. She found out about his night job, and accepted it. He was happy. Usually, when things get to that point with a lady friend, she either dumps him, or she gets killed, or she turns out to be in league with the Dark Side of the Force. Once in awhile, there's a little variety, and she just goes insane or mentally regresses to childhood."

He shook his head. "He'll get through this. Then he'll try to convince himself he's better off alone and 'bat out' on us so we'll leave. Or he'll insist on patrolling without backup and end up giving Alfred a few more wrinkles and _me_ another couple of gray hairs." Dick smiled wanly. "As you can tell, I've been through this before."

Roy blinked. "Man. How do you stand it?"

Dick sighed. "I keep trying to convince him that letting people in his life isn't signing their death warrants. Meanwhile, his life keeps tearing pages out of Joker's _Big Book of Sadistic Humor._ I'm just helping to make sure he doesn't let this drag him down too much… or for too long." He let out a long slow breath. "It's not going to be pretty after this latest case wraps up."

"You still don't know for sure she's working with them."

"No," Dick agreed. "We don't. But even if she isn't, did you happen to notice that none of the scenarios I gave you end off with them being together?" He closed his eyes. "You know, even if she turns out to be on the level, and lives through this, and still wants to be with Bruce… I think he'll still try to push her away." He sighed. "Or maybe not. I don't know. It's never happened before. Anyway, when he comes down from his adrenaline high, and it really sinks in… " Even to his own ears, his voice was weary. He opened his eyes. Roy was still staring. Dick ran a hand through his dark curls, pushing them back.

"So he'll let you save him from himself, promise to change, and once he calms down again, he'll start the cycle over?" Roy cleared his throat. "You know," he intoned, "if we were discussing—say—alcohol, instead of how he deals with his love life, in some of the circles I move in, we'd call what you're doing 'enabling behavior'."

"What's the alternative?" Dick snapped. "An intervention? I'm not going to give him an ultimatum I'm not willing to back up. And if he needs me, I'll be there." The cool air from the overhead vent felt good on Dick's exposed forehead. He sighed. "I know where you're coming from, Roy. Believe me, there are good reasons I live in a different city. Sometimes, I need to be a few steps away to keep myself from getting too sucked in. At the end of the day, though… I can't _not_ be there for him. If he can't swim, I can't just watch him sink. End of story."

Roy's comment had struck a little too close to home, though. It was time to shift gears. "Well." He forced a smile. "Enough about me. Have you heard anything from Cheshire, lately?"

* * *

"Oracle, have you been able to restore the purged files?"

The others looked up as Bruce walked back into the main room. He'd evidently passed by the costume vault on his way, as he stood before them, now Batman from the neck down. He was trailing a cape and cowl behind him.

Barbara's incredulous face expanded to fill the entire monitor. "I'm just getting started. Check back with me in about six hours."

"I'd expected that your expertise in this area would enable you to push the timeframe forward somewhat."

"Oh?"

Dick winced. Babs almost never used that tone—but when she did, watch out! In vain, he tried to signal Bruce to rethink his tactics.

Barbara continued at a rush. "Well, maybe next time you shouldn't run that subroutine that deletes certain key files if a hacker gets a little too close to breaking in! How do you expect me to get them back, now? Recite your oath?"

"Whoa." Dinah was sputtering. "You did _that,_ too? Sheesh, forget Black Glove. _You_ just might be your own worst enemy."

Bruce stayed focused on Barbara. "If you're not up to the task…"

"Bruce. Pay attention. I don't wear fishnets—no offense intended to _you_, Dinah," she added, sparing her former teammate a glance before glaring back at Bruce. "I don't wear coattails, and I _don't_ talk backwards. So, frankly, I'm not sure why you've got me confused with Zatanna!" The Oracle mask replaced Barbara's face on the screen. "The estimated time for data recovery is between six and eight hours," the electronic voice said evenly. "Oracle out."

The screen went dark.

Dinah shook her head. "You know, getting her mad isn't exactly the smartest move," she said. "You sure you're back to normal?"

Bruce ignored her.

* * *

"Tim." Bruce beckoned with a wave of his hand. "Over here. Are you familiar with this program?"

Tim looked at display of facial features on the screen. There were rows of differently shaped heads, eyes, ears, noses, and mouths. Further down, he could see colored squares in various skin tones. There were eyebrows, hair styles, scar styles—it reminded him of a build-your-own-avatar application.

"I think I can figure it out. What am I doing?"

"You had a good look at Dr. Hurt, correct?"

Tim nodded.

"Try to find his features here." It was a simple set-up. Double-click on the image you wanted and it appeared in the workspace at the bottom of the screen. Double-click on another image from the same facial feature and the new selection replaced the old.

"You've already got the bat-man mask here, I see."

"I had that image scanned into the data banks. Since it's the only way you saw him, work with it. With any luck, we'll be able to extrapolate what he looks like without the mask."

"Got it."

An alarm klaxon startled them with its volume. "Someone's broken into the main cave!" Bruce said sharply.

"On it," Dick called. A moment later he frowned. "What are _they_ doing there?" Bruce was behind his chair in seconds, watching as Talia and Damien made their way downstairs. Dick looked on in disbelief. "Why do I not think they're popping by because Alfred knows how to brew a good cup of _gahwa saada_?"

* * *

"We are inside, father," the exotic brunette announced. "The cave appears to be deserted."

There was a pause. Then an urbane voice, flavored with an accent which was not quite North African, not quite Middle Eastern, but seemed to carry hints of both and cadences of dialects long passed from the stage of civilization echoed through the underground lair.

"Are you quite sure, daughter? Our information would indicate otherwise."

The dark-haired boy was suddenly at the woman's elbow. He'd donned a domino mask he'd evidently found somewhere in the cave. "Grandfather," he sniffed, "your information came from a sycophant looking to curry favor with you. Why would you trust him?"

"Visual on," the woman said abruptly. The newest face of Ra's al-Ghul filled the monitor on the main Bat-Cave's computer. "Damien has a point, father. This man is hell-bent on vengeance. Why should you think that he would balk at lying to you in order to achieve his ends?"

"His ends are my ends, Daughter. The man was left to rot, helpless—as I was. Alone. Forgotten. I might have helped him freely; even had he not brought me the means with which to do so." The face on the screen smiled. He made a beckoning motion, and a moment later, a blond man with a serious mien joined him on the display. "Have you an explanation," he nearly purred, "Special Agent Amherst?"

* * *

As he listened to the conversation, Bruce's eyes grew wide. "It couldn't be," he whispered.

Dick spun his chair around. "What is it?"

Bruce was already walking toward Tim's workstation. "How close are you?" He demanded.

Tim looked at the image in the foreground of his screen critically. "I think I got him. Keeping in mind that I had spots in front of my eyes from one of your flash-bangs for most of the fight…"

"Don't equivocate. Just report."

Tim frowned. "You okay?"

"Never mind that. Just tell me."

The younger man shot his mentor a look. Then he turned back to the console. "Okay. We have a match on eyes, nose, ears and possibly facial structure. Hair and skin tone are at variance but we know that hair can be dyed and skin can tan." Seeing Bruce's growing impatience, he continued. "Computer says it's eighty-five per cent likely that our Dr. Hurt is, in fact, one Dr. Todd Hunter. Psychiatrist. Specialist in false memory syndrome. Sounds like he's—"

"Hugo Strange," Bruce said flatly.

"What?" Tim gaped at him. "No. It doesn't look anything like Strange."

"Change the hair," Bruce said. There was a frantic note to his voice, unnerving his young partner. "Make it black with graying temples." He pushed Tim aside as his hand found the mouse and began working it frantically. "And with this hairstyle…"

"A similar image already exists on file," the computer announced. "Run data?"

"Confirmed," Bruce snapped. "Voice and visual."

"Acknowledged. Name: Dr. Todhunter. See also: Hugo Strange—known aliases. Age…"

Tim looked at Bruce. "Todhunter. Todd Hunter. How did you know?"

Bruce turned off the audio. "It fit the facts." He turned to go back to Dick's station, but found the other man already standing beside him. "Sit down, Dick."

"I'm okay."

"You might not be, after you hear this," Bruce snapped. "Sit down!"

Dick obeyed, taking the second chair at Tim's station.

Bruce opened his mouth to speak, then spun around. He turned back to try again. No sound emerged from his lips. Finally, he closed his eyes. "Ra's al-Ghul," he managed to say. "Amherst. Hugo Strange. Even Hush." He nodded slowly. "It fits."

"How?" Dick asked.

Bruce flinched. "Hush… I… blackmailed into admitting himself to Arkham for treatment. I subsequently… amended his file to ensure that his inpatient status would not be reviewed for at least six months. Strange, I slipped into Arkham and then _created_ an admissions report for him to make it appear that he'd undergone an assessment and hearing." Seeing his companions' incredulous looks, he continued, "He _was_ insane, but… I worried that as a psychiatrist, he'd know how to work the system and obtain early release. I did something similar in order to get Ra's admitted to Arkham, as you'll recall."

Dick had gone white. "And Amherst?"

"One of Luthor's direct reports during his stint in the White House. And instrumental in framing me for murder. I'd spirited him into Arkham for his own protection—Luthor would have doubtless had him permanently removed, once he realized that I'd gotten the man to confess."

"And you left him there," Tim concluded.

"I couldn't be sure whether I'd need him again," Bruce admitted. "And he had to be kept some place secure where his story would fall on deaf ears. It was either Arkham or the cave. I judged that it would be more dangerous were he to escape from the latter." He turned nervous eyes on his eldest son.

Dick let out a long breath. "Well," he said shakily, "that clears a few things up, doesn't it?"


	6. Chapter 6: Knotted Up and Spun Around

Thanks to Aiyokusama and Sara for technical expertise! Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and Aiyokusama for the beta!

A/N: The location of the satellite bat-cave is canon. I seriously can not make this stuff up.

"Hero in Your Own Hometown" recorded by Mary Chapin Carpenter on her _A Place in the World_

CD (Sony, 1996)

* * *

_Now I'm long away and very far, from gazing at an evening sky  
From wishing on a shooting star, from thinking that a heart can't lie  
This world is gonna wear you thin, knot you up and spin you round  
This world will take it's aim, call you every name, trying to bring you down_

_Everything seems so clear when you're looking back from such a distance  
When the road not taken disappears into the path of least resistance_

_Mary Chapin Carpenter, "Hero in Your Own Hometown"  
_

**Chapter 6: Knotted Up and Spun Around**

"Out of the question," Batman snapped. "You are in no condition to take on the Black Glove. Especially not at Arkham."

Dick lifted an eyebrow. "Neither are you."

"You ask me," Roy drawled, "I'd say you're both ready to be committed."

The two continued to argue as though they hadn't heard.

"Less than twenty-four hours ago," Bruce snapped, "you were—"

"—doped to the gills, Bruce. Yes. I was. What kind of shape were you in less than _twel_…" He broke off. "I'm sorry. That was out of line." He raised his hands in a placating gesture. "You taught me better," he said after a moment.

Bruce started to nod, but Dick wasn't finished talking.

"You taught me that we have to think with our heads, not with our fists. You're about to go charging into a place where forty per cent of the inhabitants want to kill you on sight, thirty per cent want to torture you first, fifteen per cent want to sell tickets to the show, and the rest want to give you the room _I_ had when I was staying over. And I'm only referring to the patients!" His voice grew softer. "Bruce, you're dealing with people who like to play head games. Want to tell me why you're going without backup?"

Batman hesitated. "You're not fit for active duty. That stuff in your system is going to keep on giving you highs and lows for the next few days."

"Then I'll work with the highs," Dick all but snarled.

Bruce plowed on. "With Oracle otherwise occupied, I need Robin to continue researching the other members of the Black Glove and," his pause for breath was only a second longer than it needed to be, "Jezebel. Meanwhile, the main reason that the JLA has chosen to involve themselves in what should be a personal matter—"

"Now just hold on!" Dinah bristled. "You—"

"—Is because," Bruce continued speaking, drowning her words, "of legitimate concerns regarding compromised data."

Silence.

"I locked down the files," Tim said slowly. "And they didn't copy or export anything—we checked."

"Have you forgotten that it was Talia who turned my protocols over to her father the first time?"

Tim froze.

"She's in the cave now. Along with various other artifacts, among them a small piece of Kryptonite. Oh, it's well-hidden," he added. "But I don't think we can run the risk of her finding it."

"So you want me to head back to the manor," Dick stated. It made sense.

Bruce was shaking his head. "Talia has brought up Damien to think of himself as my heir," he said softly. "My _sole_ heir. He's been trained by the League of Assassins. We can't rule out the possibility that she's learned a few tricks from them as well. While they won't have access to the cave's defense systems, there _are_ weapons in the trophy room." He placed a hand on Dick's shoulder. "There are also pharmaceuticals in the medical bay that can be blended into lethal combinations. I'm sorry," he added, sounding sincere. "But I'd have my concerns even if you were at the top of your game. Right now, you aren't. And neither am I. I can't look out for you." He turned abruptly to where Roy and Dinah stood. "You'll have to handle it. Maintain radio contact with this site. Robin and Nightwing will be able to guide you

Dick frowned. "If you're not at the top of your form either, then..."

"I know," Bruce admitted. "But, you said it yourself: they want to get me into Arkham. They might have planned to use you as bait, but since that didn't work," he took a deep breath, "that's where we'll find Jezebel. And whether she's a captive—and they mean to do to her what they were trying to do to you—or a confederate, it changes nothing. I still need to stop the Black Glove.

"I'm not disputing any of that," Dick pointed out. "But you're not going—" his eyes widened. Even as he dodged to avoid Bruce's punch, his immediate thought was that Hugo Strange must have programmed more than one trigger phrase after all…

* * *

Roy started forward. "What the hell are you—_Hey_!" He glanced down to find that Tim and Dinah had each taken a firm grip on his arms. "Let go!"

"Uh-uh," Tim said grimly. "Remember what you told me when he and Dinah were duking it out?"

"That's different! Dick's not—"

Dinah's voice was low enough that only Roy and Tim heard it. "He's holding back. Can't you see it?" As Roy turned an incredulous face toward her, she nodded. "He's not attacking Dick—he's _testing _him! Don't interfere."

As the archer watched, he realized that Dinah was right. Bruce was telegraphing more than half of his moves, and he wasn't putting anywhere near as much force behind his blows as he could have. Looking on, Roy realized that the older man was gradually increasing the intensity of the spar, striking a little harder, blocking a little faster, carefully assessing his opponent for any hint of weakness.

Dick, for his part, kept his technique primarily defensive, relying for the most part on blocks and evasions. When he counterattacked, he stuck mainly to Aikido techniques, which were designed to turn an opponent's strength back on himself. He could feel perspiration beading on his forehead as he allowed a smile to spread across his face.

Roy pulled his arm out of Tim's hold and looked at his watch. Bruce and Dick had been at it for… _ninety-five seconds_? He could have sworn it had been more like fifteen minutes.

"How long," Bruce demanded as he aimed for Dick's midsection, "can you keep this up?"

"I don't know, I haven't stopped yet." He leaped, caught hold of a low-hanging pipe, and swung both feet toward Bruce's face.

Bruce ducked and Dick's momentum carried him forward. One end of the pipe broke off and liquid blasted forth. As Bruce turned to face the younger man once more, he got a face full of foul-smelling water. He doubled over, choking.

"Oops," Dick whispered, stifling a laugh. He angled the pipe away quickly. "Hey Roy!" He called. "Don't suppose you have a bung arrow to put a cork in this?"

"Are you kidding?" Roy guffawed. "You want to _stop_ it?"

"Roy! If it hits the computers, it'll short 'em. C'mon!"

Roy laughed harder as Bruce continued to cough.

"Roy!" Dinah kicked him, and not gently.

"Ouch! Okay, okay." He reached into his quiver, fitted his selection to his bowstring and let fly.

Dick looked over his shoulder at him. "You really _did_ have a cork arrow?" He asked disbelievingly.

Roy looked down. "Um… well, Ollie did. _Expanding_ cork, if you want to get technical. When I joined the League, he gave me a few of his trick arrows. _He_ said they might come in handy. I thought he was just trying to unload the ones he'd never found a use for." His voice dropped to a mumble. "I was actually trying to figure a way to get rid of them without him finding out."

Dick snickered. Then, slowly, he crossed to a supply locker, opened it, pulled out a hand towel and tossed it to Bruce. "You okay?" He forced the grin off of his face. "I didn't know that pipe was going to give," he said quietly.

Bruce wiped his face. "Rest," he ordered.

"Oh, _come_ on!" Dick protested. "I held you off for almost two minutes. I think I proved—"

"You did," Bruce said shortly.

Dick's mouth snapped shut.

"If attacked, you'll defend yourself. You've convinced me that you won't initiate combat in your current condition—which means that your judgement is probably within acceptable parameters. Your reflexes are impaired, but no worse than they've been in the past, when you've gone thirty hours without sleep." For the first time, Bruce's expression softened. "The problem is that you won't have much warning before your energy level drops.

Right on cue, Dick felt his limbs grow heavy. "You still need backup," he insisted.

Bruce nodded slowly. "Point taken. But we need to plan this carefully. First we have to make your energetic periods work in our favor. If we're going to head to Arkham, the optimal time would be _after_ your next crash. By the time we get there, you should be on an upward swing."

He waited for Dick to acknowledge the point. "Furthermore," he continued, "if the Black Glove has infiltrated Arkham, we can't assume that the majority of the patients will be confined. And if Strange and Hush are working together," he closed his eyes. "They both know how to play me… but Hush has a talent for… manipulation. If he's managed to get the inmates working together…"

"Maybe we should call in the League," Dinah pointed out.

"No. I know Arkham. I've memorized the blueprints. I know the MO's for all two hundred eleven current inmates. There's no time to brief anyone else." He exhaled. "The Black Glove is trying to lure me there. They took Dick. Jezebel is there now—and yes, she may be part of their organization—but whether she is or isn't is beside the point. If I don't go to the Asylum, they'll do one of two things. Either they'll continue to target people who are… close to me," he took a deep breath, "or, if that doesn't work…" He closed his eyes and exhaled once more. "The most likely alternative course of action—and one which the inmates will likely take for themselves sooner or later—is to open the main gates and let those within loose on Gotham." His eyes bore down on Dinah's. "If that happens, I _will_ need the League's help," he admitted. "But if we move quickly enough, we may be able to contain the situation.

His jaw set. "Nightwing. Rest. While you are, I'm going to determine the best approach for getting in and out of Arkham. Robin. Continue to work with the computers. Keep Oracle in the loop. And if she contacts you with any new information, report immediately."

His gaze flickered left. "Red Arrow, Black Canary. Go to the manor and secure the cave." He sighed. "In all likelihood, Talia and Damien will vacate the premises before you can capture them. If they don't," he looked away, "remember that normal juvenile detention facilities are unlikely to be equipped to handle Damien. And… he may have killed in the past. We know he's made several attempts." He took a deep breath and turned back to face them. "Once you've reclaimed the cave, if I haven't advised you that the Arkham situation is under control, do not attempt to contact me. Instead, both of you proceed to the asylum as quickly as possible."

They nodded. "Bruce," Dinah hesitated. "If Damien is your—"

Bruce held up a warning hand. "He and Talia need to be stopped. That imperative overrides any other concerns right now." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "I'm sending you to the manor because I trust you to not allow his… background to distract you." He met their eyes squarely. "I also trust you to use sufficient, but not excessive, force."

They nodded. "And Talia?" Roy asked.

"…Is not to be trusted. She's protective of Damien, but if she believes him to be facing a less-skilled opponent, she is perfectly capable of using him as a diversion while she—" He glanced at the monitor. "While she continues to attempt to gain access to my systems. Or explore her surroundings."

"Bruce," Dick ventured as he headed for one of the sleeping alcoves, "you're not planning to wait until I'm asleep and then head off on your own, are you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Because if you are, as soon as I find out, I'm going to follow you there—and I'll probably upset whatever plan you do cook up, because I won't know what it is."

Bruce shook his head. Suddenly his eyes widened. "I wonder," he said softly. Then he frowned. "I need to look into something while you're resting. If my theory is right," he broke off, then shook his head again. "No. Either way, I'll wake you," he said. "But if you aren't up to accompanying me, you won't be. And don't try to pretend you're feeling better when you aren't. I'll know."

Dick nodded. "I'll tell you if it's a problem. Just… don't go alone."

Bruce grimaced. "The only place I'm going alone right now is the shower." As Dick started to laugh, Bruce shot him a murderous look. "Get what rest you can. As soon as I know that I have a workable plan, I'm leaving. With you or without you."

* * *

"Well," Tim ventured, "the good news is that the computer was able to match the DNA samples to you, me, Alfred, and four members of the Black Glove. There are a couple of unmatched, so one could be Jezebel's…"

"Her information is on file in my system."

"Excuse me?" Dinah gasped. "Do you fingerprint all your dates before going out with them?"

Bruce looked like he was about to snarl back a response, but he checked himself. "We've grown… close over the last several weeks. One night, after I'd returned from driving her back to her hotel room, I discovered a stray hair on my suit jacket."

"Oh," Dinah said. "So it's _after_ you go out with them. You know, if she isn't involved in all this, I think maybe I'll need to have a few words with her about some of your… more interesting character traits."

"If she isn't involved, I'll tell her myself," Bruce snapped. He looked at Tim. "Did you only take samples from the computer area?"

Tim nodded. "That was where Roy and I fought them. I figured any samples taken from other parts of the cave were probably coming from us."

"Reasonable." He frowned. "When I… collapsed, _I_ was standing at the main console. If none of the traces were hers," his frown deepened, "either you missed collecting her DNA, or she left no trace of her presence—which would heavily imply that she offered no resistance, or…" his eyes grew wide. "Or… I was _meant_ to find that hair—and it isn't hers."

Dinah blinked. "You really think they'd go that far? Or is this more of that same paranoia that had you developing those JLA takedown plans in the first place?"

Bruce didn't rise to the bait. "They've been biding their time for over a decade," he said flatly. "They've had _years_ to plot a strategy and iron out the details. I've been trying to play catch up over the last few _days_." His eyes seemed to drill into Dinah's. "Under the circumstances, I think it might be overly hasty to take anything for granted."

Tim cleared his throat. "Um… there's some bad news too," he admitted. "Or worse news, I guess. Those Black Glove people we turned over to GCPD? They escaped from holding about an hour ago."

* * *

"How are you holding up?" Batman's voice betrayed nothing as he kept his eyes on the road ahead.

Nightwing leaned back against the upholstery and tried not to fidget. "I'm managing," he said. The motion of the car was making him drowsy—at least he hoped that was what it was. He glanced out the window. "We're taking the New Trigate Bridge?" He asked. "But that goes _over_ the Asylum to the mainland. Why…?"

Batman's lips pulled up in an uncharacteristic smile. "It's the only way to access the satellite cave on Arkham's lower level without going through the Asylum first." He paused a beat. "Once we get there, I have some things which may prove helpful.

His companion's head snapped sharply toward him. "You have a satellite cave," Nightwing kept his voice even, "on Arkham's lower level."

"You do know that before the Cataclysm, the main cave was part of a vast network of catacombs which extended beneath the city. The cave under Arkham is part of that same system. Before the quake collapsed many of the connecting passageways, it was a useful way to get to the asylum quickly and enter undetected." He made a sharp turn onto a dirt path as the car crossed over onto the mainland. "With the only clear access tunnel now on the mainland, though," he continued, "its usefulness as a base of operations has been compromised. I haven't used it since the No Man's Land ended."

Nightwing was grinning. "You have a bat cave on Arkham's lower level."

"It's not as well-equipped as some of the others, but it should be adequate for our needs." At the car's approach, a large boulder shifted to reveal a tunnel beyond. They drove in.

Batman emerged from the car to find his partner leaning against the side. "You're still managing?"

The younger man shot him an apologetic look. "I think we misjudged how long this downtime was going to last. I should be ready in a few minutes." He glanced around. It looked more like a storage room than a cave with its dark, dusty wooden furniture and overhead cobwebs.

"There's always been the risk of an inmate stumbling upon this place in a bid for freedom," Batman said. He slid a hand behind a heavy armchair with faded upholstery, feeling along the wall for a switch. "There. That's better."

Oaken armoires creaked open, revealing computer arrays, laboratory equipment and medical supplies. Flat surfaces slid back to disclose sinks and storage bins. Dick heard the low hum of an electric generator as the lights slowly came online. He whistled. "Nice."

"We're not going upstairs yet," Batman said. "We need to work everything out beforehand. With the odds we're going to be facing, we can't afford to make any mistakes." His star-lite lenses narrowed to white slits. "If you aren't feeling up to this, tell me. You can still sit this out."

Nightwing shook his head. "Not this time. And you know why."

A look of confusion came over Batman's face. "I… do?"

The grin was back. "Yeah. It's the same reason you are. I started performing under the big top when I was five. And my first night in front of the crowd, I was so excited I ran up that ladder to the trapeze… and I didn't chalk my hands first." He sighed. "I couldn't get a good grip on the swing and I fell into the net—and it wasn't a very graceful fall from what I remember." The smile dimmed. "I think I made it out of the ring before I started crying. I told my dad I was never going up there again." He chuckled. "Dad told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was going to be up on that trapeze again tomorrow, and I was going to get it right. Mom thought maybe I should wait a few days." His expression turned wistful. "I'll never forget what Dad said next. He told Mom that if he let me take a few days, that trapeze was going to look higher. And instead of concentrating on making the next leap, doing the next stunt, I'd be thinking about how far away the net was. And that what I had to do, before the fear set in, was take on the trapeze again and get it right. And I did," he finished. "Okay, maybe I hated my dad with every step I took up that ladder. Hated when he shoved me off the platform. Hated his making me do it over and over even after I nailed the stunt. But he wasn't wrong."

Nightwing took a step forward. "Batman, when I woke up in Cave Five and remembered what happened in Arkham, I panicked. And I'm not so sure, right now, that it's only the Thorazine after-effects that are making me feel this antsy. But if there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that I need to get back on that trapeze." He cocked his head to one side. "Tell me that's not what you're doing?"

Batman sighed. Then he walked over to one of the flat-screen consoles and pulled up a schematic. "This is a floor plan of the asylum. As you can see, the most logical places for them to plan an ambush would be…"

* * *

Nightwing sat on a leather couch and fought to keep his eyes open. _This is ridiculous_, he told himself. _After fighting this hard to come along, you have to do this. Come on, you've worked cold, hungry, exhausted, injured… so what's 'a little doped up'?_ It was no use. When the low passed, he'd be able to take on an army of crazed inmates, but right now…

The couch creaked as Batman sat down. "Roll up your sleeve," he directed. He was holding a small syringe. "You are never to use this compound on your own," he said as Nightwing struggled to comply. "Drug interactions are risky. I've been waiting for Dr. Mid-Nite to corroborate my findings and confirm a safe dosage for you."

The younger man nodded. He didn't flinch at the slight stinging sensation when the needle entered. "What is it?" He asked.

"A more benign application for Professor Crane's research," Batman replied. "There are certain aspects both to his fear toxin and to our antidote for it, which provoke symptoms similar to those which you've been experiencing. Once I realized that, I contacted Doctor Mid-Nite with some theories. He and I have managed to build on Crane's initial findings, and isolate those specific combinations that will neutralize the symptoms you're experiencing. This injection should stabilize your energy swings." A brief smile cracked his composure, as he added, "you ought to start feeling the effects momentarily."

"Great!"

Batman's expression sobered. "Mid-Nite estimates that you'll have about an hour before the effects of the injection peak. It will wear off entirely within another sixty to ninety minutes. And he cautioned me that a second dose taken too soon after the first could be dangerous." He placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "The Thorazine needs to work its way out of your system in its own time. We can stave off the after effects for a limited period, but eventually, they _will_ catch up with you."

Nightwing nodded. He was already feeling more alert. "So then the trick is to make sure we're well out of here before the two-hour mark." He flushed guiltily. "I think I zoned out before when you were going over the plan with me. Can I get a review?"

Batman helped him to his feet. "In all likelihood," he began, "we should be heading for one of the larger rooms, such as the gymnasium or the cafeteria. I think that we can expect to encounter resistance as we make our way toward them, but keep in mind that this is likely to be a gauntlet, rather than a line of defense…"

* * *

"So, how old is this Damien kid?" Roy asked.

There was a long pause. "Actually," Tim said over the comm-link, "that's kind of hard to say." He paused. "Chronologically, he should be about eight or nine. The first time we met, he looked it. But in the last couple of months, he's… put on about three years."

Roy grunted acknowledgement. "And Bruce wasn't exaggerating his abilities?"

Tim coughed. "He almost killed me in the cave. Don't tell Cassie or Rose."

"Got it," Dinah said. "Any word from Team One?"

"Just that they've made it onto the asylum grounds and they're getting ready. And Dick's okay," he added.

Roy brightened at that.

"Dinah," Tim said when the car was a quarter mile from the manor, "would you drive up to the west gate instead? Near the stables?"

"No problem. Reason?"

This time Tim sounded irritated. "They are so sure of themselves," he said. "I'm watching everything they're doing in the cave, and they're only paying attention to two of the security cameras on the array: the one for the front gate, and the one for the Batmobile parking bay." He snickered. "Let's give them a sur—oh no! No, get your grubby fingers off that trophy case, you little…"

Roy heard him take a deep breath.

"Sorry," Tim continued. As you can guess, there's not much love lost between Demon-spawn and me. Park next to the stables. I'll tell you how to get into the cave from there."

"Okay," Dinah said. "And Robin, like it or not, if he's Bruce's kid, I'm not sure you ought to be calling him 'De—"

"Dinah," Roy interrupted, "It still fits, you know it does."

Black Canary shook her head, but she couldn't help smiling. "Okay, we're parked behind the stables. Where to next?"

* * *

"I would have report of your progress, daughter."

Talia forced the scowl from her face before she looked up at the video display. "The systems are locked, father. And the servant has not yet returned." She hadn't been able to mask the irritation from her tone, however. "Our presence here serves little purpose. We should leave."

"Not until you have found the testament and verified the locations of any existing duplicates," Ra's snapped. "If the document purporting to name the detective's true son as his sole inheritor is to go uncontested, we must ensure that we do not hold the only existing copy of that will. The detective would not be so foolish as to have left a holographic, unwitnessed document behind. Those who know him best would never believe such a travesty."

"I realize that, father," Talia replied. "It would have been far simpler had the Black Glove been here upon our arrival, with the detective's body servant in the proper frame of mind to sign as witness to our version of the testament. Such would have bolstered our claim. But the Black Glove is not here. The servant has vanished. The security systems are, in fact, in stronger force than they have been in the past. In short, Father, your new allies have failed us. There is nothing for Damien and me to do here that cannot be better done elsewhere."

"Such as alert the father of your son, Talia?" The Demon's voice grew chilly. "Have a care, my daughter. Your loyalties are still in question. It would be better for you to accede to my instructions and give me no reason to doubt you."

Her lip trembled. "You would impugn my motives so, father? Have I not proven myself to you these past months? Did I not work tirelessly to restore you to the living? I am your devoted daughter, blood of your blood. Your goals are mine."

"See that you remember that," Ra's rasped. "Lest I decide that you are a poor influence on my grandson and take a more… direct role in his upbringing."

"Like sand through the hourglass…"

Talia whirled as she heard the voice from several yards behind her. A red-haired man stepped into view, followed closely by a blonde woman perhaps a decade older.

"Oh, no," He smiled affably. "Don't stop on our account. I'm sorry you're bored here, because I've got to say that this has to be one of the more interesting conversations I've heard in awhile."

"You got _that_ right!" Another voice called from one floor up.

If anything, Talia's face grew paler. "_Jason?_"

* * *

Jason vaulted over the catwalk railing, and slid down his de-cel jumpline with a sneer on his face. "What is this?" He demanded. "A personas non-gratas convention?"

Roy started forward, angrily. "From what Mia's told me, you'd fit right in. What are you doing here?"

"Are you seriously asking me that? Last I looked, Bruce was still my legal daddy, if you want to get technical." He shrugged. "I'll admit I haven't been much of a son these last few years, but the relationship stands. At this moment, I've probably got more right to be here than any of you." He looked at each one in turn. "Hello, again, Talia." His voice was cold.

Talia put her hand to her mouth. "How can you speak in such a tone to me?" She asked faintly.

Jason took a step forward. "Oh, it's pretty easy," he said. "Considering what you had planned for me." He gave Damien a hard stare. "I didn't mind helping you train the little pipsqueak until I found out that his final exam was supposed to be snapping my neck."

"Untrue!" Damien shouted. "The method of your death was never specified."

"You're not helping your case, kid," Jason snarled.

"It wasn't!" The boy insisted. "I was actually planning to use a fast-acting poison, out of gratitude for your lessons. There would have been no pain—"

"Damien!" Talia exclaimed.

"One moment there, Ma'am," Roy drawled. "How's about we let the bad seed talk a little longer? I'm kinda interested in seeing where he goes with this."

"Damien, be silent," Talia ordered, sounding, for one moment, not unlike her father.

She held up her hands to Jason in what was meant to be a placating gesture. "True, those were my father's intentions," she admitted. "I could not defy him openly. But he—"

"Is still onscreen behind you," Dinah said neutrally.

The other woman gave a little cry and switched off the video display.

Jason smirked. "Nice try." He took a short spike out from one pocket of his bandoleer belt and hurled it at the console. It made an audible clank as it pushed a lever back. "You forgot about the audio channel, though. Now, where were we? Oh, right. You were about to remind me how you secretly helped me to escape Ra's' base of operations in the Sudan and get back to Gotham? _After_ you'd done everything in your power to turn me against Bruce? You knew I couldn't take him, then, but I bet you figured _I_ didn't." He grinned at Talia's furious expression. "What was the plan? After he and I met up again and he saw how much I'd changed, you were going to commiserate with him, and… what? Introduce him to Damien as the 'son he should have had'?"

"NO!" Two bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks. "I was…"

Jason waited expectantly.

"Once I knew my father's plans for you, I realized that you were not safe within the compound—so I arranged your flight to Gotham…"

"All the while encouraging me to confront Bruce and giving me the funds and weapons to make me think I'd have a real shot." He smirked. "Sorry, lady. The brain damage got fixed in the Lazarus pit."

He looked at Roy and Dinah. "I don't care whether you believe me or not, to be honest, but I really did stop by to talk to Bruce. Some…" For the first time, his cockiness faltered. "Look. A lot of things happened in the last year that got me thinking. I've been trying to find a reason to pop in and I was finally in the neighborhood, today." He frowned. "I hopped the fence out where the kitchen gardens are—thought maybe Alfred would be picking a salad, or something. After I'd been on the grounds ten minutes without getting challenged, I figured something was up, so I came down here." He spun to face Talia and Damien again. "And guess what I overheard?"

Talia actually stamped her foot. "You… _dolt_!" She shrilled. "Of course I had to tell my father I was working for him—he'd never have allowed me—or Damien out of his sight, otherwise. Do you really think that I would allow those… those… base knaves to destroy my beloved?"

She turned appealing brown eyes on Roy. "Don't you see? I'm on your side!"

Roy raised an eyebrow. "Why? Have we started winning?" He grinned. "Good to know."

"You'll have to excuse my team-mate," Dinah said smoothly. "He's worked for Checkmate, you see, and it's given him a sixth sense about when somebody's planning to stab him in the back." She gave the other woman her sweetest smile. "I don't trust you either." She sighed. "Unfortunately, we can't call the cops on you for breaking in here, for the obvious reason. And we've no proof that you've done anything else illegal—at least nothing that's likely to stand up in court. So, since we can't exactly kill you—"

"Speak for yourself, Blondie."

"Shut up, Todd." She turned back to Talia. "We're going to see you off the manor grounds. If you're smart, you'll be on the next plane, boat, train, or boom tube out of Gotham."

"Please be smart," Roy said. "I see we're going to have our hands full keeping Resurrection-Boy away from you, and, frankly, we've got enough to deal with."

"I can _help_ you!"

Dinah sniffed. "Sure you can. Right up to the point when it becomes convenient to sell us out for your father." Her tone hardened. "Here's your choice: the road… or a cell on the JLA Watchtower."

Talia looked from one set of implacable eyes to another. She drew herself up haughtily. "Come, Damien," she commanded. "We are leaving." They stalked toward the elevator.

"Good riddance," Jason muttered. Roy grinned at him. The three turned to the security array, watching as the al-Ghuls made their exit. It wasn't until the main gate closed behind Talia's blue Maserati that Jason cleared his throat.

"How's Alfred?" He asked.

"Safe," Dinah said. "He'll be fine."

Jason sighed, visibly relieved. "Good. Where's…"

"Facing insurmountable odds. Wanna help him triumph over them?"

Jason's eyes widened at Roy's friendly tone. "You're asking me to come with you?"

"Well," Roy shrugged, "if you don't mind a little madness and mayhem." His tone grew serious. "Batman and Nightwing went to confront the Black Glove in Arkham. They could be in trouble. I'm not sure how much I can trust you, but I don't think there's much love lost between you and the inmates—and if it's down to a choice between someone who might cut and run on me or someone who'll put a knife in the back of an ally as quick as look at them, I think we're better off with you."

This time, the smile was genuine. Jason reached into his pocket, pulled out a red domino mask and put it on. "Let's go."


	7. Chapter 7: Dance of Death

Thanks to Debbie and Aiyokusama for the beta!

Thanks to the little_details community for advice on poisons. Thanks to Kathy and Samantha for aid in making the deathtraps a bit more believable!

"A Dangerous Game," written by Frank Wildhorn and Leslie Bricusse. From the _Jekyll & Hyde_ soundtrack (Milwaukee: Stage and Screen Music Ltd., 1997)

* * *

_A darker dream_

_That has no ending_

_That's so unreal_

_You believe that it's true_

_A dance of death_

_Out of a mystery tale_

_The frightened princess_

_Doesn't know what to do_

_Frank Wildhorn and Leslie Bricusse, "A Dangerous Game"._

* * *

**Chapter 7: Dance of Death**

The first attack came almost as soon as they emerged from the supply closet, the back wall of which concealed the entrance to the cave. They found themselves walking through a narrow corridor, with cinderblock walls and hard stone floors. Double doors with chicken-wire windows were spaced at ten-foot intervals along the way.

"Safety precaution," Batman said, as they approached the second set of portals. "In theory, they can lock the doors via remote control and trap a patient within one section of cor—" He broke off abruptly. The twin slabs of metal resisted his push. He shoved harder. They didn't yield. "Back the way we came!" He barked.

Nightwing obeyed, his partner flush on his heels. The set of doors that they had just come through were barred as well.

Cursing, Batman fumbled in his belt for a lump of white clay. "Get back," he said.

Nightwing didn't have to be told twice. The C-4 tore the doors off their hinges and the two raced through the gaping hole. They were out. A whoosh of cool air from a vent behind him skimmed the top of his head. A cloud of dust, likely a remnant of the blast, surrounded him, the particles tingling on his exposed face. _One trap down, one million to go._ He coughed. His tongue felt like it was suddenly too heavy for his mouth. His heart rate quickened as the corridor seemed to spin. The Thorazine had made him feel like this. Had Batman and Doctor Mid-Nite made a miscalculation with that injection…?

A breathing mask settled firmly over his face as an arm wrapped about his shoulders, pushing him forward.

"Are you alright?" Batman demanded harshly, his voice muffled by a mask of his own.

Nightwing nodded automatically. The dizziness was beginning to fade. He blinked as Batman held up another needle.

"Atropine," Batman said curtly. "There were monkshood particles coming in through the vent over the doors. I recognized the symptoms. This should neutralize them." He shook his head. "By confining us in a small part of the corridor, she all but ensured that it wouldn't take long to succumb to the toxin's effects."

"She?" Nightwing's eyebrows drew together in confusion. An instant later he realized who Batman meant. "Ivy."

Batman closed the anti-toxin kit and replaced it in one of the pouches of his utility belt. "Most toxins that are absorbed through the skin are pesticides or industrial poisons. Monkshood is one of the few that is plant-based." He placed two empty syringes in a small container for later disposal and turned again to face his companion. "You'd better head back downstairs."

"No," Nightwing insisted. "I'm coming with you. Just like we agreed."

"Don't you understand? This is only the beginning. They're going to keep coming after us with deadlier attacks. I won't be able to protect you."

"I know. I'm not asking you to. Batman, I wouldn't be fighting to stick with you if I didn't think I could handle myself. We decided—"

"We were wrong!" Batman turned away and then spun back. "I almost watched you die… how many times over the years? No more. I'm not going to witness anything like that tonight. Go back."

Nightwing's thoughts reeled. Batman never, to his recollection, spoke this way in the field. It was rare enough for him to disclose that much emotion outside the costume. Something was definitely spooking him. _Spooking_… _That's got to be it! Wait. But then why aren't I…? _An instant later, the answer came to him. He shook his head. "Can't do that, Batman."

The other man took an angry step forward. Nightwing held up a warning hand as he continued. "Until Scarecrow's fear gas wears off, you _definitely _need someone watching your back."

Batman shot him an incredulous look.

The younger man grinned. "Remember what you said about using some of the fear toxin _antidote_ in that first injection you gave me? Guess it has another advantage. I don't suppose you could take—"

"I have been," Batman said, annoyed. "Every time Crane escapes. Every time I have reason to come here. I inoculate myself with the antidote as a precautionary measure."

"Then…?"

Batman let out a long breath. "After all this time, it seems that I've built up an immunity to the general serum." At Nightwing's questioning glance, he elaborated. "Crane varies his recipes. Without knowing the exact composition of his current version, it's impossible to determine the most effective counter measure. What I've been using until now fights the most common elements of his toxins. That… evidently… is no longer sufficient." He looked like he could have kicked himself.

"Can you manage?" Dick asked seriously.

Batman nodded. "Now that I know what I'm dealing with." He placed a hand on Nightwing's shoulder. "Are you sure that _you_ can?"

_Well… actually, the idea of charging over two hundred inmates when neither of us is operating at one hundred per cent capacity doesn't fill me with as much confidence as I'd like… but…_ He grinned. "You know it."

If the other man suspected Nightwing's actual thoughts, he gave no sign. Instead he squared his shoulders, drew another breath, and said, "Let's go."

* * *

"It's a rental," Black Canary said in response to Jason's whistle. "Not exactly a Ferrari, but—" She broke off.

The younger man had already ensconced himself in the front passenger seat of the candy apple red Ford Mustang. He raised an eyebrow at Roy. "What're you waiting for?" He demanded. "Back seat's all yours." He flashed Dinah a cocky smile. "Maybe when all this is over, you and me can go for a bit of… private action."

Dinah's answering grin was even broader. "If you clear it with my husband, first. He'll probably give you a…" She glanced at Roy. "A one hundred sixty-five-yard head start?"

"One seventy-nine," Roy corrected. "He'll have the arrow nocked and ready at the one sixty-five mark, though. Up to that point, he'll probably still be deciding whether to use a wood, fiberglass, or aluminum carbon shaft." He frowned. "And then there's the issue about whether to use a normal broadhead, something with a barbed tip… on second thought, he might go right to the 'special' arrows." He glanced at Jay. "Did you want to be standing near another Lazarus pit?" He asked solicitously. "I mean, just to be on the safe side?"

Jason stared at Roy as though trying to figure out whether the other man was joking. After a moment, he turned around again and nonchalantly fastened his seatbelt. He didn't utter another word until they were almost out of Bristol.

* * *

"Another one?" Nightwing rolled his eyes when the door that led from the stairwell to Arkham's main floor refused to budge. "You'd think they'd quit with the remote locks already—they're barely slowing us down."

Batman bent down to examine the bar-lever. "But they _are _slowing us." He pointed to a spot on the doorframe, slightly above the bar. "Can you defuse that?"

Nightwing's eyebrows shot up. "They really don't think it through, do they? If this goes off, it'll take out the whole build—" He frowned. Why was the floor so wet? And it felt as though he was kneeling on a grid of some kind. "They _wanted_ us to find the booby trap. Which means that the _real_ one—"

Batman jerked him away from the door and pointed upward. Something large and white was rolling toward them, rumbling as it drew closer. "Thermal flares! Now!"

The ball of ice, which rolled effortlessly down the winding stairs toward them, had to be at least six feet in diameter. As Nightwing struggled to pull the thick cylinder out of his boot compartment, the reason for the puddles on the landing became apparent. In a matter of seconds, the water had frozen, leaving a near-frictionless surface. _Mr. Freeze's doing. It has to be. He must've rigged that grid to quick-freeze the floor somehow. Man, we've got to start carrying road salt in these suits!_

As his legs slid out from under him, Nightwing managed to dislodge the incendiary with one hand, while catching hold of the banister with the other. He landed on his back, chin tucked, sprawled along the flight of stairs they'd just come up, still clutching the handrail. With his free hand, he fired the flare directly at the approaching ice-ball.

There was a hissing sound and a muted thunk as the missile impacted the ice sphere. A large chunk split off from its body, but the newly-hewn facet did little to stop the ball's forward momentum. It continued its descent down the spiraling staircase, as though hell-bent on crushing him. Just then, two more flares struck from above in quick succession. Batman had used a de-cel line to swing clear and was firing down.

Steam filled the corridor, obstructing his vision. Water—a good deal more of it than there had been a few seconds ago—and several largish chunks of ice, flowed down. One bumped his arm as it went by. He turned on his side and let the chill stream run past him for a moment or two. Then he glanced over his shoulder and saw his partner leaning down with a concerned expression.

"Are you…?"

He forced a smile. "I'm feeling… Titanic," he said weakly. "Don't suppose you got the license number of that iceberg?" Batman's frown deepened. "I'm fine, I'm fine," Nightwing added hastily in response to the scowl. "Just had the wind knocked out of me." He accepted the outstretched hand and got carefully to his feet. "Okay… if you've got the landing de-iced, I'll have another go at that door."

* * *

"Who are you dressing up as this time?" Roy asked.

Jason twisted as far as the seatbelt would allow him to look behind him. "What?"

"C'mon, you've been Robin, Red Hood, Nightwing… I'm surprised you didn't grab a bat-suit while you were in the cave." His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "Or did you just want to get into Batgirl's ti—"

Dinah slammed on the breaks, nearly pitching Roy forward into the passenger headrest. "If you don't pipe down back there, I'm driving back to the manor and leaving you there."

Jason snickered. Dinah turned to him. "As for _you_…"

"Me? I was just sitting here, minding my own business when he—"

Dinah massaged her temples. "I don't believe this. Lian shows more maturity than the both of you put together. I'm only going to say this once. Roy, lay off. Jason, calm down. Both of you… grow up!" Her tone snapped them both to attention. "This is Bat business. This is League business. This is not the time to be horsing around." She looked at Roy. "You already know what's at stake, and you," she turned to Jason, "probably have a good idea. We can use your help, but not if the both of you are—"

"He started—"

"Well, DON'T finish it!" She took another breath. "Roy, behave. And get your seatbelt on."

A faint but audible click was the only response to her directives. Dinah nodded to herself and started driving once more. After a moment, Roy asked, "So, kid? What's your code name? I mean, if I happen to see Hatter sneaking up on you with a customized fedora, how would you like me to shout out to warn you?"

The younger man thought for a minute. "You might as well call me 'Jay'," he said.

"Jay? You mean like… Blue Jay? Green Jay? White-collared Jay? Nah, you're not planning on the priesthood, are you?"

The youth glowered. "Just 'Jay.' Hey, It's still going with a bird theme," he added defensively. A pause. "It'll do until I come up with something else."

"Oh? You looking?"

"I don't know." The smirk was out of his voice. "There are…" He started to say something, but caught himself. "Look. Stuff happened to me last year. If I tell you everything, you'll think maybe bringing me to Arkham is a good idea even if Batman isn't there. Hell, I started trying to write stuff down, thinking it might be easier to tell Bruce in a letter and _I_ thought I ought to be committed. Just… you know how they say you should be careful what you wish for?"

"Yup," Roy's reflection nodded in the rearview mirror.

"They're right."

Roy was silent for a few moments. Then… "This wouldn't have anything to do with what happened when you and Donna went looking for Ray Palmer?"

Jason wondered whether Roy had actually _heard_ his jaw drop open.

The archer grinned. "She and I do chat every now and then, you know."

Jason relaxed visibly. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess it does. See, there was this one Earth we ended up on where after I… died… Bruce… lost it and killed the Joker…"

* * *

Batman eyed the dimly lit corridor with distaste. "I do not like this. Not at all."

Nightwing shrugged and turned on his flashlight. "Infrared scans show clean," he said, tapping one of the Star-Lite lenses of his mask for emphasis.

"There are ways to block those," Batman pointed out, as he turned his own light on. It cast a narrow beam directly before him. Nothing ahead of them _appeared_ to be a booby trap at first glance. Neither man took appearances at face value.

Nightwing took the lead, letting his beam sweep from one wall to the next ahead of him. "Tripwire," he whispered. He was about to step over it when Batman pulled him back.

"Hold it," Batman cautioned. "That floor looks wet—and it shouldn't. I think…" He tossed a small batarang into one of the puddles and was rewarded with a spark and a hiss as it hit the water.

Nightwing shook his head. "An electrified floor. I take back what I said in the stairwell. They really did think of everything, didn't they?"

"Bruuuuuuuuce?"

The shriek echoed down the corridor. Both men froze.

"Bruce, help! They're going to—Mmmmphg!"

"Jezebel!" Batman whispered. "We have to…"

"KILL YOU! CRUSH YOU!" A guttural voice bellowed from behind.

The dynamic duo turned as one, as Killer Croc came barreling toward them.

"Think he'd survive the floor?" Nightwing asked out the side of his mouth.

"Uncertain. As the Black Glove intended," Batman snapped back. "Croc has brute strength and endurance on his side, but he's not intelligent enough to obey anyone's orders for long. They may see him as too great a liability." He took out a bola and whirled it above his head. "But they know _we'll_ try to save him. Even if it kills us."

Nightwing slid two nightarangs out of a compartment in his glove. He aimed low, as Batman released the bolas.

The three linked, weighted balls wrapped around the reptilian torso, pinning Croc's arms to his side. The man who had once called himself Waylon Jones roared with rage, as he tried to break free of the polymer cable.

The roar changed to a shriek of pain scant seconds later, as Nightwing's razor-sharp, stylized shuriken found—and severed—their mark: one of the ligaments of Killer Croc's right knee. The heavy-set man collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony, scaly fingers trying in vain to reach the joint and hold in the blood streaming from the side of his leg.

Nightwing winced. "I just wanted to stop him."

"It doesn't look like you sliced the artery," Batman pointed out. "With the right medical attention, he should recover." He rested a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Good work." He pointed to an overhead light fixture. "That _should_ bear our weight," he said, as he readied his grapnel. "I'll go fir—"

"_BRUCE! HELP MEEEEEE!"_

Batman gripped Nightwing's arm. "Let's move!"

* * *

"What the hell…?" Dinah muttered. The Maserati parked on the shoulder of the road looked a bit too familiar. As did the woman standing next to it, peering frantically over the low metal fence that served as a guard rail between the Aparo Expressway and the drop to the river below.

"Oh no," Jason groaned. "Don't stop, Blondie. Just keep driving."

"Popinjay has a point," Roy chimed in. "We don't have time for this. Hey. Where's Demonbrat?"

Dinah took a deep breath. "Well," she said, "I've never exactly tried to pass myself off as any kind of detective," she pulled onto the shoulder behind Talia, ignoring her passengers' protests, "but most people don't stop in the middle of the highway to admire the landscape." She opened her door and stepped cautiously over to the rail.

"Hey." She said quietly.

Talia turned to face her, a desperate hope flickering in her eyes. "You have him?" The hope died almost immediately. "He is _not_ with you," she stated. "Of course not," she continued, speaking more to herself than to Dinah. "You are only just arriving on the scene and he," she pointed down the incline, "is several miles ahead of us and likely halfway to that… that _madhouse_ by now." She hugged herself, closed her eyes, and began to sniffle. "He wants to help his father," she wept.

"Damien?"

"Of _course_, Damien, you simpering hussy!" Behind the tears, Dinah saw rage glisten. Talia continued. "He flung himself out of the car and onto the roof of a passing truck." She shook her head. "He sees this as some… some… _sirah_. Or a tale out of the _Arabian Nights_. He has no idea of the sort of monsters that await in the asylum."

"But you do," Roy said coldly. "If you didn't know it before, you must have figured it out after your father's stint in that place. And you still helped set this whole thing in motion. Not such a brilliant scheme now that your son's caught up in it, is it?"

"I told you," she hissed, "I am trying to help you!"

"Yeah?" Roy snorted. "Do me a favor, then? Switch sides! We'll do better that way."

Talia flinched. "Please," she whispered, "I beg you. Don't leave me bereft of both my son and he whom I had hoped to make my husband. Not both on the same day. You," she dabbed at her eyes with a linen handkerchief, "you claim to be heroes. You're supposed to render aid, not… not berate m-m-me."

"We'll help," Dinah said firmly. Over Jason's disgusted protest, she added, "we can't turn our backs on a ten-year-old wandering around Arkham."

Roy observed the exchange with a bemused smile. "I'm beginning to see why you left this business," he remarked to Jay. His eyes met Dinah's. He sighed heavily. "Guess the kid can't help who his relatives are. And it's not like we weren't headed there in the first place." He turned back to Talia. "Were you going to come along, too? Or were you just going to wring your hands and tremble in the parking lot?"

Two spots of color rose to her cheeks as she drew herself up and lifted her chin. "I shall follow your vehicle in my own. I _am_ his mother, after all. Who else would he heed?"

Jason began to laugh. "Lady," he said, "do you really think this latest stunt of his counts as 'heeding' you?" He snorted. "And please don't try and say that you didn't tell him _not_ to jump, so it doesn't count. Face it, Talia, he's out of control. Believe me. _I_ know."

"Jay," Dinah said, "that's enough. Get back in the car. You too, Red Arrow. We've got to get moving." She smiled sweetly at Talia. "Try not to tailgate. When I get nervous, well… I'd hate to think what my canary cry could do to your windshield."

* * *

Batman and Nightwing paused before the gunmetal-gray double doors. "Alright," Nightwing said finally. "If I remember the floor plans, this should be the rec room, right?"

Batman nodded.

"Do we go in?"

He nodded again. "But if we had any reason to doubt it, it's definitely a trap."

"You're kidding!" Nightwing gasped. "I mean," he continued with an eyeroll, "besides the fact that we've followed the screams this way, and the passageway dead-ends here, what makes you think that?"

Batman was not amused. "First," he said, giving his partner a hard stare, "despite what was on the blueprints I showed you earlier, these doors are the only way in or out of the rec room. Jeremiah had the fire exit sealed off last year after he'd experienced three breakouts in two months."

Nightwing blinked. "And the safety inspectors allowed it?"

"Think about it, Nightwing," the other man sighed. "Do you honestly believe they want to make sure that the inmates can get _out_? This place hasn't had any kind of safety inspection since the Rebuild."

"Ah. Okay," Nightwing nodded. "And the second reason?"

"The room's soundproofed. We wouldn't have heard those screams unless they'd opened the doors to lure us here. Are you ready to go in?"

* * *

_A short while earlier…_

He'd timed it perfectly. By the time his mother registered that the car door had opened, Damien had been out of the vehicle, scaling the guardrail. By the time she'd been able to stop the car and retrace her path, he'd been over the fence and atop one of the slow-moving supply boats that traversed the Sprang. He'd studied the maps of his father's city well enough to know that Mersey Island, where the asylum stood, was situated at the western mouth of the Sprang, where it flowed into the Gotham River. It had been simplicity itself to locate a westbound barge and leap aboard unnoticed. And then, to slip off the craft as it passed within striking distance of Mersey.

Bypassing the alarms had been child's play. No, they'd been a child's challenge. The security experts, apparently, had never thought that someone might try to break _in_ to Arkham—and certainly not through an opening scarcely two and a half feet wide. It only took him a few minutes to remove the bars from the window. And it never occurred to him to wonder why no guard appeared to challenge him. He was a Son of the Bat and a Grandson of the Demon. Certainly, their talents were encoded in his blood and in his bones. As the panel of bars came away in his hand, Damien felt a rush of joy. So would all obstacles fall before him!

After ten minutes of reconnaissance, however, Damien had to admit that he'd encountered no obstacles. The halls were quiet. Perhaps 'deserted' was a better term. He'd expected to encounter doctors and orderlies, possibly hear the moaning and raving of the lunatics incarcerated here. But there was nothing.

He walked down a corridor with cells on either side of him, which had clear Plexiglas panels for doors. He cautiously pressed his face to one of them. The space beyond was empty. So were the others. For the first time, Damien felt a twinge of apprehension.

As he rounded the corner, he heard voices. Two of them. One male, one female. They seemed to be coming from a room labeled 'staff lounge'.

"It's excellent, Simon!" The woman was saying. "The likeness is superb."

"Thank you, my dear," the man replied. "I'd thought to bury him in it, but now I can see that it would be a waste. I'll need to work on the voice, I think." When the man spoke again, it was in a low-pitched, gravelly tone. "Is this better?"

Female laughter, and applause. Damien opened the door a crack and looked in. His father was there, in costume, along with the woman Mother called 'his newest strumpet'. He was about to announce his presence, when he stopped. The strumpet had addressed him as 'Simon'. That wasn't his father's name. Better, he resolved, to hide in the shadows and listen longer. Only a fool would charge in without understanding the situation. And he, Damien Al-Ghul was…

…Suddenly dangling in mid-air as a mighty hand clamped about his forearm and hoisted him high. A dank, earthy smell surrounded him, not unlike the inside of a potter's workshop.

"Well, well, well," a deep voice rumbled. "And just who do we have here?" His captor laughed. "I didn't know we'd opened a children's ward! Who are you!"

"Unhand me!" Damien snapped. "At once. Or my father shall make you pay!"

His captor laughed again. The hold on Damien's arm tightened, and then, it seemed to spread until it immobilized him from wrist to shoulder. Even through his shirtsleeve, and especially on his bare forearm, the grip was icy, with a dampness that seemed to seep into his very pores. "Your father? Oh, that's rich. I don't see him anywhere around, kid. Do you?"

"Not yet," Damien blustered. "But he will be. And when he arrives, you _will_ pay for _daring _to lay hands on the son of Batman."

All at once, the hand swung him around and he gazed, for the first time, at the face of the man who had so effortlessly subdued him. Only… it was no man. It was a vast behemoth of living clay! Damien opened his mouth to scream—and a muddy hand clamped itself over his lips. Cold fury overcame terror. This… creature… _dared_ to lay hands on an Al-Ghul? Enraged, Damien bit into the hand. The clay flowed over and around his teeth, coating them and fusing them together. A ribbon of clay rippled out from either side of the gag and quickly ran behind Damien's head, where the two ends met and fused. The clay dried instantly.

Clayface smiled a leering, toothless, grin. "That should keep you quiet until we need you to speak up," he said. An arm reached over to pat the boy's head. "Aw, don't take it so hard," he said as he wrapped Damien from neck to ankles in a clay cocoon. "If it makes you feel better, we want to see your daddy about as badly as you do. Why don't we go into this room with my friends, here," he pushed open the door to the lounge, "and we can wait for him together?"


	8. Chapter 8: The Devil's Backyard

_You've got one chance in five_

_They're the odds you must beat_

_If you want to survive_

_So be fast on your feet_

_Life is hard here_

_It's the Devil's backyard_

_--Leslie Bricusse, "Façade, Reprise 2"_

* * *

"Façade, Reprise 2" written by Frank Wildhorn and Leslie Bricusse. From the _Jekyll & Hyde_ soundtrack (Milwaukee: Stage and Screen Music Ltd., 1997)

Thanks to Samantha for scientific tips!

Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and Aiyokusama for the beta!

* * *

**Chapter 8: The Devil's Backyard**

The Mersey family had valued its privacy. They had taken advantage of the rises and dips of the island terrain to keep their mansion concealed from the idle sightseers who had, back in the day, passed along the river. To the centuries-old oaks and white pine trees, they had added hedges and shrubs, and encouraged riotous undergrowth. The lone road up to the main house twisted, bent and wound its way around imposing boulders and grassy hills, keeping the structure out of sight for as long as possible. Finally, though, for the second time in nearly as many days, the imposing stone walls and high wrought-iron gates of Arkham Asylum came abruptly into Roy's view as the car rounded the last curve in the road. It didn't look any more inviting on his return.

"Any word from Team One, Red?" Dinah spoke into her radio.

"Not since they went upstairs," Oracle responded. "I wasn't really expecting to hear from them, though, unless they needed me to run some data or the mission was over." She made a disgusted sound. "It took forever, but I finally got those files back." She let out a breath. "It was just what we figured: Bruce downloaded a virus program, presumably the same thing Hush got Harold to set up, which gave the Black Glove access to the security overlays. They were bloody careful. Bruce would've noticed if any of his files were sent to an outside source, but all Black Glove did was figure out where the blind spots were and how to disable the secu-cams, and then they went in and did what they had to do manually." Her voice turned thoughtful. "There _was_ subliminal suggestion involved—that Zur-en-arh business—but that's only been going on for the last couple of months. And it looks to me like it was all set up to accomplish one primary goal: incapacitate Bruce long enough for them to get in and take over."

"Wait," Roy said. "They couldn't have been camped outside the manor waiting for Bruce to say that trigger phrase. I mean…"

"I know," Barbara said. "The subliminal suggestion had one goal, but it was in two parts. First, it had to work on Bruce's subconscious, so that it would have the," she stopped for a moment, then took a deep breath and went on, "the effect they wanted, but second," she stopped again. "Second," she continued, "it was only after the Black Glove had him in the right frame of mind that they could start implanting the trigger phrase—and they did it with a catch. _Seeing_ the trigger phrase did nothing. Less than nothing—they'd programmed Bruce not to register that he _was_ seeing it. But if it were said aloud, then _that _would trigger the… the—well, you saw him, before—the 'seizure', I guess."

Dinah frowned. "But if he couldn't see the phrase…"

"Yep," Barbara confirmed. "Someone else would have to recite it, once the others were in position."

"So," Roy's voice was hard. "Now we know what Jezebel was doing in the cave."

* * *

The main gate was open and unguarded. Dinah raised an eyebrow and exchanged a quick look with Jason. He nodded grimly. As she looked through her rearview mirror, she saw Roy's expression tense as well. Then, the archer shrugged and smiled.

"Guess I don't get to manhandle the admin, this time out," he remarked.

"That doesn't leave you _too_ disappointed, I trust?" Dinah asked, amused. She homed in on a parking spot.

"Nah. I just hope we won't have to rescue him." Roy made a face. "He'd probably make us fill out a mountain of paperwork before he left with us."

Jay arched an eyebrow. "Just conk him on the head and throw him over your shoulder," he suggested. "No fuss, no muss, no bother."

"Y'know," Roy said, "I do believe I'm starting to like the way you think."

Dinah parked the Mustang and the three piled out. "I guess we'd better wait a minute," she said, as Talia's blue car entered the lot.

"Agh! Why?"

Roy sighed. "Think about it, Red Jay. Do you really want her out of your sight in Arkham? Ten-to-one odds she's just going to go right to Hurt and company, and tell them we've arrived. You ask me, she's one enemy we definitely ought to keep close."

Jason frowned. "What did you just call me?"

"Red Jay," Roy said with a surprised expression. "Why? Did I hit a nerve or something?"

"No," Jay shook his head. He seemed to be turning something over in his mind. "Red Jay," he repeated softly. "Red Jay…" All at once, he smiled. "Keep using it." He turned away, but Roy could still hear him repeating it under his breath. "Red Jay…"

* * *

From the confines of his clay prison, Damien watched as the strumpet slid her hands easily into the wrist restraints on the arms of the wheelchair.

Simon bent over the chair to tighten the straps. He did not buckle them, however.

"And how is that, my dear?" He asked.

She flexed her wrists experimentally, and nodded with satisfaction. "I'll be able to free myself when the proper time comes," she said with satisfaction. Her amused gaze fell on Damien. "What of the boy?"

Simon Hurt walked over to the long coffee table, where Clayface had unceremoniously dumped his captive. He patted his chin thoughtfully as he regarded Damien. "It is something of a dilemma," he admitted. "If it weren't for the child's grandfather, I fear I'd yet be languishing in a place not dissimilar to this one." He smiled down at the sudden hope that sparked in the boy's eyes. His smile froze. "Of course," he continued in a sharper tone, "I do have the child's _father_ to thank for leaving me in those circumstances in the first place."

"Have we yet need of the Demon's help?" the woman asked lightly.

Simon turned his gaze from the boy. "That, my dear, is an excellent question. It's usually wise to maintain cordial ties with powerful friends."

"My father told me something once, Simon," the strumpet said thoughtfully. "If one chooses to accept the aid of powerful allies, it's best to be sure that those allies do not, one day, turn their power against _you_." She smiled at Clayface, who had positioned himself in the opposite corner of the room—a hulking man-mountain. It was difficult to say whether he stood or sat. He simply _was_.

"It seems to me," she continued with a brilliant smile, "that our companion has handed us the perfect tool to ensure the long-term cooperation of friend and foe alike."

As she spoke, Simon's lips stretched into a broad smile of their own. "My dear Jezebel, you amaze me," he beamed. "How could I have missed something so obvious?"

He turned to Clayface. "We need to get the young lady into position," he said briskly. "Keep the boy here. Try to keep him alive." He gazed down at Damien again, and his smile shrank slightly. "If that proves untenable, see to it that you dispose of his remains in a way that would make it difficult to identify them." He sighed. "I imagine we should be able to… I believe the word I'm searching for is, 'bluff,' for awhile."

Damien blanched, and seemed to shrink further into his cocoon.

Clayface leered. "Sure thing, Doc. I'll… _handle_ him."

As Simon pushed Jezebel's wheelchair out of the room, Clayface oozed over to the table. "Looks like it's just you and me, kid," he chuckled. "Now, how are we going to pass the time?" He crooked a massive index finger under his equally massive chin. Then, his yellow eyes seemed to grow brighter. "I know! How about Uncle Clayface tells you a story? About the last time I ran into a bunch of kids, some a little younger than you, some a little older… and I had them working for me and catering to my every whim for weeks!" He settled himself a bit more squarely before the coffee table as Damien squeezed his eyes shut.

"Once upon a time, there was a band of kids who lived all alone in a big park with no grownups to teach them good values. They didn't know nothing about no work ethic—just ran around eating berries all day! Now one day, those kids met up with a green-skinned, redheaded witch, who…"

* * *

Batman and Nightwing pushed open the rec room doors carefully. Nightwing lifted an eyebrow. Someone, quite obviously, had a flair for the dramatic. A single beam of light illuminated a wheelchair at the far end of the room, before a painted screen. Restrained in the chair, hair disheveled and eyes wide and staring above her gag, was a woman.

As she leaned forward, straining against her bonds, the dynamic duo heard a loud click. One row of ceiling lights came on, shining a narrow path to the woman. The rest of the windowless room, however, remained dark.

It was not silent, though. Within the near pitch-blackness, they could hear muffled laughter, the rustle of garments, the faint slaps of thin-soled slippers against a wooden floor, and the soft scrapes of chairs shifting under the weight of their occupants.

"Cover me," Batman said quietly.

Nightwing nodded. _I'll do better than that_, he thought to himself, as his mentor started forward. Star-Lite lenses allowed them to see in anything but total darkness. And for the infrared to fail… He flung a handful of nightarangs to each side.

Loud protests—and illumination from the emergency lights along the walls—rewarded his efforts, when two enormous black curtains came crashing down over a number of spectators. At least, Nightwing presumed that the lumps struggling beneath the heavy folds were spectators. The chairs and their occupants faced forward, ten or twelve rows deep on each side. Someone had done a good job arranging the chairs, alternating five and six seats to a row, to give those seated further back a less-obstructed view of the stage.

The curtains, Nightwing realized, had to have been treated with lead chromate, or something else capable of repelling infrared light. Thick though they were, they wouldn't hold their captives long. He had to do something to level the playing field quickly.

Nightwing emptied the contents of one of his glove compartments into the palm of his other hand. As the draperies began to slide away, he pulled on his gas mask and scattered the fistful of small round pellets. He waited until the dense smoke had nearly covered the area before he switched to tear gas.

He smiled. They couldn't see him through the haze, and between the smoke and the tear gas, they were probably more concerned at the moment with breathing than with fighting him. Behind him, he heard the rec room doors swing wide. A breeze from the air conditioning stirred the clouds, sending a good portion of the swirling vapors out into the corridor with the fleeing inmates. That was good; it meant that much less of the stuff was going to drift in Batman's direction.

All at once, he heard loud applause. His smile fell away quickly, as an all-too-familiar voice proclaimed, "You just _had_ to spoil it, didn't you? You just had to go and fight dirty!"

The Joker shook his head mockingly. "Tears. In _my_ asylum? And chasing out paying customers, too!" He gestured toward the rec room doors. "Do you have any idea what a ticket to 'Fall of the Batman' _cost_ those people?" He smirked. "Well. A few of us are still going to get our money's worth!"

Instinct made him turn around, just in time to see Two-Face rushing toward him. Out of the corner of his eye, he registered several more figures who seemed content to keep to the sidelines for now. Nightwing sidestepped Dent's attack, darted in again, and slammed the edge of his hand against his assailant's throat. The former DA fell back, wheezing.

Nightwing watched him for a second, to make sure that the man wasn't bluffing. A purple-sleeved arm encircled his neck and he turned his attention back to Joker. Batman was going to have to manage without him for a little bit longer.

* * *

Batman sprang forward, trusting Nightwing to have his back. There was little choice and fewer options. He had to free Jezebel, get her out of the crossfire, and help his partner deal with the rest of the inmates. He judged that they had—at best—another twenty-five minutes before the Thorazine-counter started to wear off. They needed to be well away from here before that happened.

He took vague note of the blackout curtains collapsing and the increased illumination. Nightwing _did_ have his part under control, for now. Good.

His jaw clenched. He might need to call in the League on this, after all. Not for the first time, he wondered why he found that so galling. Was it that hard to admit that maybe forcing over two hundred rampaging inmates back to their cells might require the work of more than three masked vigilantes? If the truth were known, he'd faced the prospect of being unmasked with greater equanimity.

Ego aside, neither he nor Nightwing were currently operating at peak efficiency. And Jezebel was going to be a distraction. _Enough. Reach the chair. Free her. Get Nightwing and get to safety. Then…_

He stopped. Why would the audience only occupy the rear half of the room? He frowned as he noticed something odd about the ceiling, as well: there seemed to be something like a… checkerboard shag rug… hanging from it. It started almost exactly where the chairs stopped. Whatever it was, it was obviously not meant to affect the spectators. So. That, then, was the trap.

Batman considered his options quickly. The ceiling fixture covered the area from wall to wall. Edging around it was out. Even with a running start—and judging by the melee behind him, and the slowly drifting haze of gas and smoke, he didn't have that luxury—he doubted that he'd be able to gauge a leap so that he would clear the trap but stop short of the wall. And, going by the obstacles that he and Nightwing had already faced, it was extremely likely that he'd fling himself clear of one trap, only to run headlong into another.

A grapnel on a de-cel line could snare the wheelchair, but if he went that route, he'd be dragging Jezebel through the very pitfall that he was trying to avoid.

He steeled himself to the task at hand. There was no help for it: he had to spring the trap and deal with the consequences. He donned his breathing mask again—the tear gas and smoke were starting to waft closer. Then, he squared his shoulders, braced himself, and started moving forward.

He was one third of the way to Jezebel when a black rectangle detached from the ceiling and fell with a clack to the floor, mere millimeters to the left of his position. He took another step, and a red one fell to his right. As he looked up, he could see more rectangles—playing cards, he realized, now that he had a better view—loosen and descend from the ceiling. His eyes grew wide. He had to move—and fast!

* * *

"They definitely passed this way." Red Jay pointed to the doorframe. "Nightwing deactivated that one. He showed me how, once." He pointed to fresh scratches in the lintel. "That's from a batarang. He used it for leverage to force the door open, after he'd defused the bomb."

"How do you know it wasn't Batman?"

Red Jay shrugged. "Maybe Batman forced the door, Blondie, but Nightwing has a certain style when it comes to disarming bombs." He smirked. "You just have to know what to look for."

Behind him, Talia sniffed disdainfully. The young vigilante grinned at her and continued.

"In this case, I'm looking at the nightarang he used to cut the wires. He jammed it into the detonator when he was done. Any more questions?"

When silence answered him, Jay pushed the door open.

"Hold it," Red Arrow said. "Wait one second." He bent down to the floor, scanning the epoxy surface carefully. "That way," he gestured, as he got up again. "Batman and Nightwing went straight, but Damien," he turned to Talia with a frown. "Damien came in from somewhere over there," he waved vaguely to his left, "and then cut across and went off in this direction," he pointed right.

"Okay," Jason said. "Have fun, then. "I'll catch up with the others." He blinked innocently at Black Canary's glower. "What? You asked me to come along to help Batman. I'm fine with that. You want to go after that little sonova… bat, go right ahead! But don't expect me to come along." He gave her a crooked smile. "It's been a fun ride, Blondie, but I think it's time we parted ways. No hard feelings."

"Why, you…"

Whatever Dinah was about to say was cut off by Red Arrow's sneering remark. "I was wondering how long it would take you." He looked disgusted. "You couldn't have held out another ten minutes? Now I have to foot the bill for Robin's next pizza run." His eyes bore down on Red Jay's. "Do you have _any_ idea how much that kid can eat in one sitting? First time I saw him chow down, I thought he was Wally's kid brother. Ah, why am I bothering?" He turned away. "Donna warned me. I should've listened." He sighed. "Come on, ladies. Good luck, Red Jay." He pivoted back and placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "For what it's worth," he added quietly, "I do understand your point. And I know the kid's an arrogant, irritating, little twit with homicidal tendencies…"

There came an enraged gasp from behind. Roy didn't turn around.

"If what you're overhearing bothers you, Talia," he said, "stop listening." He continued. "I just don't think being young and reckless and stupid ought to net you the death penalty, you know?" He shrugged. "Be seeing you."

Jason watched them turn to leave, feeling as though he'd just been sucker-punched. He took a step to follow them, then stopped. He was right. He knew he was right. Damien was trouble that they didn't need. _And he's probably going to get himself killed._ So? The kid had planned to kill _him_ not that long ago. He deserved it!

…_Felipe_

Jason's heart missed a beat. He hadn't thought about the diplomat's son in years._ The first man he hadn't saved. The first man he'd killed. He hadn't meant for it to happen, but he wasn't sorry that it had. He'd been young and angry, then. All he'd understood was that a man who preyed on innocent women was going to escape with impunity. He hadn't let that happen. Bruce hadn't seen things his way, naturally. It had put a strain on their partnership. The final straw had been when Bruce had barred him from the Robin suit, indefinitely. Jason had run away then. Sure, he'd told himself that it was to look for his mother, and that had been a big part of it. But more than that, he'd been so furious that he'd just wanted to get as far from Bruce as he could. _

…_And he'd careened directly into Joker and that damned crowbar. _

Red Jay realized that his hands were trembling. _No wonder he'd gotten himself killed! He'd had so much anger, back then… _

…_Not to mention recklessness. And_… _stupidity_.

He took one step down the corridor, and then another. His foot froze mid-step. _No. Don't let Harper get to you. It's not the same thing. It isn't. Don't give in. Just keep moving._ It was no use. He spun around and took off after the others, cursing Roy under his breath as he raced to catch up.

* * *

Batman twisted his torso sideways and narrowly avoided the black-backed playing card.

"You can't dodge them all, you know."

He recognized the voice. An Oxford education and the best elocution teachers hadn't completely eradicated the cadences of Hell's Crucible. The speaker had grown up in one of the worst slums of Gotham City's Lower East Side.

The Dark Knight pivoted left and another card fell harmlessly to the ground. On the plus side, the cards weren't directly targeting him. On the minus side, Strange was right: he'd never evade all of them. Fortunately… "I don't need to."

Soft, mocking laughter greeted his response. "That's right. Very good, Batman. How ever did you figure it out?"

He hadn't, of course. But he'd guessed. One of his senseis had put him through just such an exercise, decades ago. Of course, that time, the ceiling design had been kanji: the two Chinese characters that denoted courage, in black on a red background. They'd been ordinary rectangles, too—not playing cards, although their edges had also been razor-sharp and coated with a topical anaesthetic. Batman suspected, however, that he was facing something deadlier this time around.

"Red or black alone won't give you much more than a paper cut," Strange's voice emanated from speakers set at intervals along the walls. "But combine them…"

Batman felt a sudden stinging and looked down at his arm in horror.

"Oh my," Strange said. "Well… let's hope for your sake that you only get nicked with the black ones from here on in, Batman, or else the two different compounds will combine in your bloodstream to form a most effective neurotoxin." His laughter seemed to reverberate through the room.

Beneath his cowl, Batman felt a bead of sweat form. He'd figured that it would be something along those lines. It wasn't lost on him that Strange had waited until he was more than halfway across before springing _that_ surprise on him. He steeled himself and took another step. A red card skimmed past him, slicing through the outermost level of Kevlar on its way down. Once again, he was reminded of the difference between shank-_resistant_ and shank-_proof_. Two more steps. A card rammed point-first into his shoulder. He pulled it out and looked at it. Black again. He was still sa—he felt a sharp stinging sensation in his upper leg, followed almost instantly by an ominous tingling.

"Dear, dear me," Strange's voice practically oozed sympathy. "I guess you missed that one."

Batman couldn't respond. Under the Kevlar, he could feel his thigh beginning to swell, straining against the weave of the costume. He sank to one knee, his heart thudding in his chest. His limbs trembled; his lips began to go numb.

Simon Hurt, or, more properly speaking, Hugo Strange stepped forward from behind the screen and walked over to Jezebel. He had exchanged Thomas Wayne's bat-suit for the more contemporary model. "You see, my sweet," he said, resting a hand on her shoulder, "it worked perfectly. The Batman is ours."

Through the last fading threads of consciousness, Bruce saw Jezebel pull her hands free of the chair restraints. Her gag was gone. And she was smiling.

* * *

"Well," Red Jay said quietly, "The good news is, he's in there."

Black Canary frowned. "I guess the bad news is, he's got a guard detail?"

The young man nodded. "It's only one," he said, "but that one is Clayface."

"And he will have _me_ to deal with." The ice in Talia's voice belied the fire in her eyes. "Come along," she commanded. She took a step forward, then turned back, incredulous when she felt Red Arrow's hand on her arm. "You _dare_?"

"Stop you from getting us all killed? Yeah, I think I dare." He looked at Red Jay. "Which one was it?"

Jason did a double take. "There's more than one Clayface?" He shrugged. "I dunno. This one is massive, yellow eyes, talks like…" He hesitated, then grinned. "He pronounces everything perfectly. Kinda reminds me of Kelsey Grammer, that way. Only he's mangling the grammar worse than some of the gangs I've worked with, not so long ago. Oh, and he likes to hear himself talk. A lot." He looked away, but not quickly enough to hide a smile. "You and he'll probably get along."

Roy reached over and cuffed the back of his head. "Brat."

Jason flinched and took an involuntary step backwards.

Roy blinked, but he pulled his hand away. "Okay," he said, returning to business. "I think I remember the League's dossier on Basil Karlo. That's who it _sounds _like." He grimaced. "Not good. He's the original version, and maybe the deadliest. His voice softened. "He… doesn't exactly have a soft spot for kids, Talia."

"That would explain why Damien's in a cement straitjacket," Red Jay said. "Okay. If the guy's living clay, conventional weapons are going to be worse than useless. He'll just ooze around arrows and so on." He glanced up sharply. "What about a fire arrow?"

"Risky." Roy shook his head. "First, shooting it directly into the clay might just smother the flame. Second, I don't think he's got any vital organs to hit in clay form, so even if he feels it, it's only going to make him mad."

"Which could make him careless."

"There is that," Roy nodded. "I'm also trying to avoid a situation where he gets to use the kid as a hostage."

"He can only do that," Jason said with a savage smile, "if we actually care whether he lives."

"Jay…"

"_You_ might. Me?"

Roy looked at him. After a moment, Jason's eyes slid sideways.

"Alright, fine. But Clayface doesn't need to know that."

Talia reached into the folds of her flowing jacket with her free hand and pulled out a grenade. "I have two more," she said. "If they were detonated within his torso, perhaps…"

Black Canary shook her head. "I'd chance it, if Damien weren't a prisoner." Talia started to protest, but Dinah kept talking. "From what Red Jay just said, Clayface is restraining him _with clay_." She glanced at the younger man. "He's not… stuck to Karlo, is he? The straitjacket is separate?"

Jason nodded. "Totally."

"Which implies that Karlo can lose a certain amount of his… body… and still function." She frowned. "I know that at least one of the Clayfaces can do better than that. If a clump of him gets cut off from the whole, he can still control it through telepathy. I don't know if our boy in there has that capability, but blasting him to smithereens won't help us if those smithereens all start attacking us."

Talia sniffed. "What," she asked, sounding as though each syllable she uttered came at a heavy cost, "would you suggest, then?"

Black Canary rested one hand on her hip. "Oh," she said nonchalantly, "I've got this talent for turning men… to mush."

"Dinah," Red Arrow ventured, "if you're referring to what I _think_ you're referring, just how selective can you be? I mean, can you take out Clayface without…"

"Affecting Damien?" She nodded. "If I can take down a concrete building without hurting a dog's eardrums, I think I can turn Karlo to jelly and not hurt the kid."

"Jelly," Talia muttered under her breath.

Black Canary grinned. "Well, I seemed to have that affect on your father, even without the Canary Cry, remember?"

Talia flushed bright red. "Just… see that no harm comes to my son!"

"You got it," Dinah said. "Jay, get ready to grab Damien. Harper, stand by with cold arrows. Clayface won't be that malleable if he's on ice. Talia, watch our backs. And Heaven help Damien if you don't, because if someone gets the drop on us, we may not be able to fight our way out and save your son, too."

* * *

Nightwing had lost track of how long he had been fighting, and how many opponents he was currently facing. His body reacted faster than his mind could process the situation. Before he registered the high kick speeding toward the bridge of his nose, he had dodged it. Even as he perceived that his attacker, unable to stop, had slammed full-force into another assailant, he was twisting out of the melee and engaging a new foe. Where was Bruce in all of this? Had he reached Jezebel, yet? Nightwing mentally shook himself. There was no time to worry about that now. He had to keep fighting.

A shadow darted in front of his face. He took a step backward, pivoted—and someone pinned his arms unceremoniously behind him. He brought his boot down, hard, where he imagined his captor's instep to be. He was rewarded by an expletive, and one arm was suddenly free again. The grip on his other one, however, did not slacken. _Had to be two of them grabbing me,_ he realized, as a fist plowed into his abdomen. He doubled over, wheezing. More hands gripped him, immobilized him, twisted both arms behind his back and forced him to his knees. Somebody grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his head up with a painful jerk.

His heart plummeted. Across the room, he could see Batman lying still on the floor. Nightwing had to look hard to reassure himself that his mentor was still breathing, albeit shallowly. Standing against the far wall, their hands linked, stood Hugo Strange and Jezebel Jet with identical triumphant smiles on their faces.

Strange motioned to his right and a large hulking figure detached himself from the crowd and approached Nightwing. The young vigilante fought a surge of panic. The last time he'd seen this man, he'd been in the intake unit!

Le Bosseu smiled and brought a small plastic tray forward. On it, Nightwing could see two cards: one red, and one black. "You don't look particularly comfortable, my young friend," he leered. "Well. Let us see whether we can grant you an… extended rest?" His tone hardened. "Caligula, Scorpiana, hold his arms out straight! I want his hands where we can see them."

Nightwing struggled, but to no avail. His captors gripped his wrists like twin vises. Le Bosseu's smile grew positively predatory as he held up one of the cards and lightly slashed its edge against Nightwing's cheek. He nodded with satisfaction at the thin line of blood, which welled up almost instantly. Then he picked up the second card. "This will only sting for another moment, monsieur…"


	9. Chapter 9: Face to Face with the Devil

Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and Aiyokusama for the beta!

"Face to Face" written by Tony Arata, performed by Garth Brooks on his _The Chase _album (Capitol, 2000).

* * *

_Face to face with the devil that you've been dreadin'  
Eye to eye finally has arrived  
But bad as it was, well now brother wasn't it better  
Dealin' with him face to face  
'Cause it'll never go away  
Until the fear that you are runnin' from is finally embraced  
Face to face_

_--Tony Arata, "Face to Face"_

* * *

**Chapter 9: Face To Face With the Devil**

"Heard anything from either team, yet?"

Robin kept his eyes on the road. "Negative, Oracle." He veered his motorcycle to the right to allow the minivan behind his to pass. "You?"

"Still nothing." There was a pause. Then, "What's your twenty?"

Under his helmet, the young man made a face. "Okay, where'd he hide it, this time?"

"Excuse me?"

"The tracker, the homing beacon, the satellite interface… whatever it is you're using to keep tabs on me." He didn't bother to hide his irritation. It was hard to maintain any kind of privacy when the majority of the people with whom he interacted were trained detectives. Trained to mind other people's business. The fact that he possessed the same skills did nothing to mollify his frustration.

"Robin…"

"I know, I know. He swore you to secrecy," he sighed. "I'll find it later."

"Tim…"

"Look, I'm not mad at you. I just wish that once in awhile my… adoptive father wasn't Big Brother, 'ya know?"

"Timothy Jackson Drake, will you let me get a word in edgewise?!"

He started, pulled ahead of the semi and took a right turn onto a side street.

Oracle continued. "I can hear your 'cycle through the commlink. Not to mention the other traffic. I realize that you've been running around like 'mini-Bruce' lately, but could you, somehow, _not_ adopt the paranoia that goes with it?"

Tim felt his face grow hot. "Sorry, Oracle," he mumbled. If he was such a great detective in his own right, why did he still jump to conclusions? He slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid hitting a cat. The cat—not much more than a kitten, really—gave him a baleful look and streaked back to the sidewalk.

He heard her long-suffering sigh. "Forget it. I guess you're headed for Arkham?"

"Beats waiting around in the cave." He paused. "Thanks again for talking me through fixing that pipe. If it had started gushing again…"

"Don't mention it. And Tim?"

He revved the motor again. "Yeah?"

"I'm relying on you to assess the situation before you go charging in. If you need reinforcements, for pity's sake, _tell_ me. I can get a discreet force into the city with a few minutes notice, but I _need_ that notice."

"Understood. Robin out." He terminated the communication. With any luck, the others would have the situation under control by the time he got there—because if they didn't, whatever decision he made would be bound to tick off either Batman or Oracle. And he wasn't at all sure which of the two would let him off the hook more easily.

* * *

If the truth were told, it wasn't much of a fight. Black Canary had honed her cry to perfectly pitched precision. As the ululating sound waves found their target, Clayface clapped hammy hands to either side of his head and shrieked, "I'm melting! I'm melting! Oh, what a world, what a world… Who would have thought…"

Red Arrow dispatched one of his namesake missiles directly into Clayface's gaping maw. Almost instantly, an uneven coating of ice sprang forth, then spread to coat the mud puddle that he was fast becoming. Two more arrows completed the job.

"Damien!" Talia cried.

The clay cocoon had crumbled with its creator. The small boy rolled over on the table. "M-Mother?"

Talia swept him up and crushed him to her. It was almost a full minute before he remembered that they were not alone, and began squirming to get loose. "Really, Mother," he muttered, "not in front of the help."

He broke free and took off for the door. Red Jay grabbed him by the collar. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Unhand me, Todd. My father needs my aid."

Jason glanced down at him and raised an eyebrow. His gaze flicked meaningfully to Talia, to Roy, and finally, to Dinah, who had finished with Clayface and was now taking a long swig from a canteen.

Damien seemed to wilt slightly. "I… I heard Simon Hurt speaking with the strump…" He broke off as he saw Talia frown. "With the woman he sent to distract Father. They're laying a trap for him in the 'rec room'."

"You know where that is, kid?" Roy asked.

"Tell this oaf to let me go, and I'll find it," the boy snapped.

Black Canary held up a pendant that she had been wearing under her costume. "Oracle, do you read? We need the most direct route to the rec room from our current position." She grinned at Damien. "I know it's not as much fun as exploring every nook and cranny, but it'll get the job done faster."

"Do not seek to patronize m—"

"Thanks, Oracle!" Dinah interrupted. She headed for the exit. "Come on, people, it's this way."

"Hey, wait," Roy protested. "We're taking the twerp? He's just a kid, Canary."

"I'm perfectly capable of holding my own in a fight you… you… _lout_!"

"_Damien!_"

The boy turned bewildered eyes on Talia. "Mother? You're taking their part? Over… mine?"

Talia's only response to him was a hard frown.

Dinah sighed as she watched the exchange. "It's not like we've got a choice, Arrow. Where would you want to leave him?"

"Where would I _want_ to?" Roy rolled his eyes. "You really don't want me to answer that." He shook his head. "Ah, well, maybe we'll pass a nice comfy cell on the way."

The last thing that Clayface heard as the lounge door shut was Damien's outraged, "_Mother!_"

* * *

Nightwing strained against the hands that held him fast, but there was no give. Le Bosseu dangled the second steel card tauntingly in front of him—now bringing it close to his cheek, now whisking it away.

"I wonder," he said, "which of you will live long enough to watch the other die?"

"D-die?" A voice exclaimed in shock. "You're planning to kill them?"

Nightwing blinked. He recognized the voice, but those words…

"Hold on one cotton-picking minute, Quasimodo!" Joker roared. "I realize that when it comes to the Bat-boob I might have to take a number, but if ANYBODY around these parts is going to off a Robin… it's gonna be _me_."

Okay, now _that_ was the Joker he knew and loved… and had to get the hell away from.

Joker dashed forward. "Give me that!" He made a grab for the card.

Le Bosseu snatched it away. "Keep back, Jo-ker," he warned, "or you may receive this trink-et in a way which would not be to your pleasure."

The Frenchman's accent was stronger under stress, Nightwing noted clinically.

"Oh, yeah, Igor?" Joker chortled. "You want a piece of me?" He planted his feet apart and flung his arms wide. "Well, come and get it!"

Le Bosseu snarled. "Hold this one a moment longer," he jerked his head in the direction of Nightwing and his captors, and turned to face the Joker. "You are beginning to annoy me, M'sieur."

Joker giggled. "Really? Should I tremble? Should I shiver?" His grin dimmed. He took two steps forward and then dropped to all fours. "Should I fall down on my knees and _beg for mercy_?" A sob escaped him. "Well?" He looked up slowly, his eyes large and pleading. "Should I?"

The hunchback blinked. He glanced uncertainly about, as though seeking advice from the others in the room.

That was when Joker leaped up and savagely hissed. "I DON'T _THINK_ SO!" All at once, two playing cards materialized, one in each hand.

Le Bosseu shrank back for a moment. Then, he chuckled. "But those two are both red-backed, M'sieur. You need one of ea—_gagh_!" Twin streams of red liquid suddenly spurted forth from somewhere below his chin. At the same moment, he felt as though something had just brushed his throat. Then, all at once, there came a sharp pain. He struggled to draw a breath, but found that he could not. Even in his panic, he realized that Joker's hands were now shockingly empty. An expression of horror came onto his face as he slumped to the floor, both hands flying to his neck… from which the two cards now protruded. He made a horrible gurgling sound as he struggled to apply pressure to the wounds. Blood continued to flow through his fingers, as his movements quickly grew weaker.

Nightwing clenched his teeth. He doubted that there was anything he could do for the man, but Joker's little stunt seemed to have frozen the others in shock—which gave him the perfect opportunity to make his move. Quickly, his thumbs located the two buttons he needed. They had been built into his gloves, each one situated over the first bone of the middle finger. Pressing them singly would do nothing—something as innocuous as a handshake would fast become a risky proposition, otherwise. However, if he pressed both buttons simultaneously, not with the pads of his thumbs, but with the narrow metal strip, which had been incorporated into the fabric of his gloves directly over the tips of his thumbnails, he would electrify the outer layer of the suit.

An instant after he did, two bloodcurdling shrieks attested to the success of that move. He winced. Scorpiana's metal gloves must have made her particularly vulnerable to his attack. On the plus side, his arms were now free—and there was only one goon left to get out of his hair… literally.

Nightwing reached up, grasped his captor's hand with both of his own and pressed it tightly to his scalp. At the same time, he extended his right leg behind him. Leaning back, he pivoted right, and lowered his chest to his right thigh. Then, still holding his attacker's hand to his scalp, he rose up, turning the goon's arm in a spiral motion.

The man behind him struggled, then screamed as Nightwing's maneuver first locked his arm, and then the violent force of the action dislocated his shoulder. His hand opened, releasing his grip on the vigilante's hair.

Nightwing delivered a mighty kick to his former captor's ribs. One quick look told him that Le Bosseu was indeed beyond help. He allowed himself one fleeting instant of regret—despite what the hunchback had planned to do to him, it was a messy way to go, after all. Then he spun and raced toward the opposite end of the room. Batman was down… and it looked like it was up to him to get them both out of here.

* * *

Jezebel moved the wheelchair back and stepped on the switch that had been concealed beneath it. "It's safe to go down," she said.

Strange nodded. "Help me with him, then," he said, as he stepped off the dais and advanced toward Batman. He glanced up. "Don't bother with that now!" He snapped, flicking his finger irritably toward the straightjacket in her hand. "The neurotoxin will keep him in a state of paralysis for several hours. But _he_," Strange pointed to Nightwing, who was slowly cutting a swath through his opponents, even as they sprang forward to intercept him, "will reach us in a moment. So, if you'd be so good as to help me load his mentor into the chair so that we can get out in the confusion, I… _eh_?"

A red-fletched arrow skimmed past Strange's cheek. "This a private party?" Roy asked, "Or can anyone join?"

"Private!" Jezebel snapped. She dashed back to the dais and darted behind the screen. Swiftly she bent down and removed her shoe.

"Come on, come on!" She whispered as she tugged at the platform heel. If she could just get the C4 loose, and extract the detonator cap from its protective casing before one of Batman's allies realized what she was doing, it would be a simple matter to blast open the sealed fire exit door.

Someone plowed into her, wrapped spindly arms about her knees and bore her to the ground. "Hello, again, _Strumpet_," Damien said coldly.

* * *

"You're not getting past me twice!" Two-Face lunged forward, a folding chair raised high over his head.

Nightwing rammed a vicious left hook into Two-Face's unprotected gut. The former DA's hands flew open. Nightwing caught the chair's backrest and brought it down on his opponent's head for good measure.

Two-Face's eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the floor in a daze.

Without hesitation, Nightwing whirled and slammed the chair into Joker's face, sending the clown down for the count.

Nightwing kept going. He didn't recognize his newest assailants. Maybe they'd shown up after he'd moved out of Gotham. Maybe he just didn't know them without masks or makeup. It didn't seem to matter. A kick here, a head-butt there, feints, jabs, evasions, and blocks combined in a relentless ballet. He moved steadily, keeping one eye on his attackers, and the other on his goal.

"Hold it!"

Nightwing froze. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roy standing stock-still, one arrow still fitted to his bowstring.

Strange smiled. "Joker actually had a good idea, for once. Drop the bow, archer. And raise your hands. That goes for both of you," he added. "Unless," he grasped one of the ears of Batman's cowl and tilted the prone vigilante's head back, "you think that you can get this card out of my hand before I slice his throat with it."

Red Arrow complied with a scowl.

Strange motioned for him to move next to Nightwing.

A piercing cry rent the air, setting both vigilantes' teeth on edge and raising the hairs on the backs of their necks. The cry's effect on Strange, however, was a bit more intense. He slumped to the floor, and curled up on his side, his fists pressed tightly against his ears. Talia was there in a moment, pressing a curved dagger against his jugular. "Turnabout," she said grimly, in a voice that sliced through his whimpers as easily as the blade could cut through his skin. "I do hope you attempt something idiotic. I would enjoy a reason to drive my point deeper."

Roy breathed a sigh of relief and stooped to retrieve his weaponry. "Thank you, ladies!"

Dinah grinned back. "Anyone seen Jezebel?"

Nightwing shook his head. "She must've bolted." He approached Batman cautiously, keeping alert in case Strange still had something up his sleeve.

"Well," a lilting voice called, "I didn't go far." Jezebel Jet stepped around the screen and onto the dais, half dragging a small limp form.

Talia's eyes grew wide.

"DAMIEN!"

* * *

"R to O, do you read?"

Barbara's voice came crisply over his commlink. "Go ahead, R. Talk to me."

"Nobody's out here. No guards, no inmates, none of our people. I've been monitoring GNN and police band, and there've been no reports of a breakout, so unless you've heard something on a more discreet frequency…"

"I haven't," she interrupted. "The rest of the city's actually having a pretty quiet night." She paused a beat. "For Gotham, I mean."

Robin exhaled slowly. "That means everyone's still inside. Okay." He thought for a moment. "I'm going to reconnoiter the perimeter… see if I can pick up any hints as to what's going on in there, before I go charging in." He hesitated. "I don't suppose you could arrange to have the navy on standby?"

"No," Oracle said, considering. "But SWAT and the Gotham Harbor Patrol?" She let the smile spill into her voice. "I think, it's time to check in with my father."

"Can you let the others know I'm out here if they need me?"

The smile dropped. "I've been trying, but either they're in a dead spot, or something's jamming me. I'll keep trying to break through, but I've got a feeling that, by the time I do, the question'll be moot."

"Understood, O. R out."

Barbara sighed. She was used to running operations from a monitor womb, but this was one of those times when she wished that she were closer to the main action. Platinum Flats was just too far away. She missed the Clocktower.

* * *

"Your father warned me that you might be difficult," Jezebel smiled. Behind her, Hugo Strange stirred, struggling to rise to his feet. She turned to Black Canary. "Children's eardrums can be so delicate, I find," she said. "I'm told that you can pinpoint the effects of your cry, but I'm sure you wouldn't want to chance it." She hauled the unconscious boy forward and hoisted him aloft, so that his head rested against her shoulder. She winced, and inhaled a bit more loudly then usual. Damien must have put up a good fight. "Particularly not now—OH!"

A nightarang flew past, slicing the top of her ear. Startled, she released Damien's legs and slapped her hand to the side of her head. Red Jay took a flying leap and tackled her about the waist, using his weight to bear her to the ground. Damien slid from her grip as she went down. "She won't, I will," Red Jay snapped.

Damien began to stir. Red Arrow scooped him up and passed him to Talia.

"Arrow!" Nightwing snapped. "Help me. We have to get him out of here." He tossed a flash-bang overhand, aiming it over Strange's head. Reflexively, the psychiatrist's eyes followed its trajectory. So, of course, when it went off, he was looking directly at it. Strange cried out and stumbled blindly into the dais. If Batman hadn't been in such bad shape, Nightwing might have tossed out a quip. As it was, he was too busy getting his mentor upright. Bruce was virtually deadweight. But, at least, he was breathing normally. Dick, on the other hand, was starting to feel… He suppressed a wave of dizziness. They were almost out of this. He just needed to hang on another minute or two… "Red Arrow, now!"

Roy took another moment to dispatch a barrage of flare-, net-, and sonic boom arrows, which trapped some of the remaining inmates and sent the others dashing for the exits. Then he bent down and draped one of Batman's arms over his shoulders. Nightwing did the same. Slowly, the two young men rose. Nightwing's knees buckled, but he straightened almost instantly.

"You okay?"

Nightwing nodded. "Let's move."

"What about…" Roy let his voice trail off. Dick was carefully putting one foot in front of the other, but it was obvious that he was struggling. Much as he hated the idea of letting Jezebel and Strange get away, his priority had to be… His eyes grew wide. "Red Jay! Behind you!"

Jason twisted, spun, and planted his palms flat on the floor. As Hugo Strange charged wildly toward him, the young vigilante violently snapped into a handspring and rammed both feet into the psychiatrist's mid-section. Strange fell heavily to the ground.

Jezebel took advantage of the momentary distraction to get to her feet and bolt for the exit. Talia sprang to intercept her, locking her hands about the other woman's wrists.

Jet struggled, trying to shake free.

Black Canary grabbed hold of Damien.

"I can walk," the boy said sulkily.

"Great," Dinah said. "Unfortunately, we need to run."

Damien opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it as Dinah hurried him along.

"Go!" Talia ordered. "Get them both to safety! I'll hold off your pursuers!"

_No need to ask which two she meant_, Roy thought cynically. She might be too diplomatic to say it to their faces, but Damien had only been repeating what he'd been taught when he'd referred to them as 'the help' earlier. He shrugged mentally. Whether she was requesting or commanding their assistance, they were still bound to provide it. Besides, she _was_ buying them time.

They vacated the room as quickly as they could, carrying their injured with them.

Red Jay was the last. "You know," he said, "Ra's won't let you alone after this."

"I can take care of myself, Jason," Talia said loftily.

"Yeah?" He rolled his eyes. "Well, guess what, Momma Al Ghul? It's not just you, anymore." He pulled the plastic tie around Strange's wrists and tightened it with a vicious jerk. He started to say something else, then shook his head disgustedly and took off after the others.

Jezebel laughed. "It must gall you, Demon's Daughter," she said as she tried to break free of the other woman's grip. "You spent _how_ many years waiting and sighing for your…" she giggled, "Beloved. Whereas I found my way into his heart… and his world… in a matter of weeks!" She smirked. "Face it, sister. You contended. I won. His love, his trust, his secrets." She got one hand loose, but had scant opportunity to make use of it before Talia raked her fingernails down her cheek. Jezebel shrieked and slapped Talia across the face.

Talia's head reeled back, but she recovered quickly and rammed her knee into Jezebel's stomach. Then, she buried her fingers in the mass of tight reddish curls and pulled forward.

Jezebel grunted in pain and rained rhythmic blows onto both sides of Talia's midsection.

Something dropped out of Talia's pocket with a metallic clank. It bounced once. Then, there was a softer clink as a small piece of the device fell loose. For one instant, Talia froze in horror. Then, her expression hardened. She pivoted a quarter turn, released her grip on Jezebel's hair, and gave the woman a hard shove backwards.

She saw Jezebel land on the grenade. Then she turned tail and ran. She was almost to the door when the shock wave from the explosion carried her forward, out of the room, and slammed her into the corridor wall. Talia took a few moments to catch her breath. Then, carefully, she looked behind her. It only took her a split second to ascertain that Jezebel Jet would never again menace her son or her Beloved. She looked up and down the hallway. There was no way to be sure which way the others had gone. Shakily, she made her way toward the stairwell. The police or the Detective's allies would arrive momentarily, and wanted to be well away from here by the time they did. She bit her lip and made her way down the stairs, to the main floor, and then out to the parking lot.

* * *

"Where are they?"

Talia whirled and found herself eye to intense eye with a glaring youth. She turned her back abruptly. "I haven't the faintest idea."

"You mean you left them," Robin accused.

Talia stiffened. "You're trying to sound like him. Believe me, boy, you aren't anywhere near ready." She let out a long breath. "When I saw them last, they were fine."

He couldn't believe that he was asking this but, "Where's your son?"

"With them. It's… better this way." She bit her lip. "I need to leave."

"Talia…"

Her long brown hair swung in an arc as she spun back to face him. "Don't try to stop me!"

Robin took a surprised step back. Was Talia… crying? "I won't have to," he said quietly. "Harbor Patrol has the asylum surrounded, and the bridge accesses are blockaded." She _was_ crying, her dark eyeliner smudging and streaking down her cheeks. Feeling decidedly uncomfortable, he handed her a tissue. She accepted it in silence, dabbed at her eyes, and then pulled a small compact case out of her pocket and flipped the lid open.

"What happened in there?" He asked finally.

Talia shook her head. "I think… perhaps it would be best if I spoke to you only in the presence of my attorney."

Robin shrugged. "Suit yourself." He had to admit he was surprised, though. He wouldn't have thought her the sort to retain a lawyer. He blinked. Talia wasn't using a brush to reapply her make-up—she was tapping the inside of her compact with white-gloved fingers… and they weren't picking up any powder! That wasn't a compact, it was…

In the distance he heard a faint whine, and a chopping motor. The sounds grew louder. At first, Robin thought that it was a SWAT helicopter, but the paint was wrong. The chopper dropped lower, until it hovered directly overhead, and only a few feet above the asylum's second story. The passenger door opened, and a rope ladder uncoiled. Talia seized it the instant it came within reach.

Robin readied his grapnel. Two warning shots hit the grassy turf mere directly before him. He reeled and staggered back, dropping the device.

"Until we meet again, stripling."

The helicopter descended another few feet. Talia hesitated on the ladder. "Tell my Belo—tell Bruce…" But the motor drowned out anything that she might have said.

Robin watched helplessly as she climbed inside and shut the door behind her. Then, the 'copter rose higher into the sky, although it was several long minutes before he stopped hearing the loud chop-chop of the blades.

He shook head in annoyance, bent down to retrieve his grapnel, and turned back toward the asylum. As he approached the front door, a balding man in the charred and tattered remains of a Batman costume lurched unsteadily out. Strange looked… pretty badly… _hurt_. Tim's lips twitched at the unintended pun. Then he fired the grapnel, releasing a thin titanium cord, which snaked around the doctor's ankles. Strange struggled, but Robin had him subdued and secured in a matter of moments.

"O?" He said quietly into his commlink. "Do you read?"

"Loud and clear," she said immediately. Her tone grew warmer. "Canary just made contact. They're all safe. Now here's how to get to them…"

* * *

"F-father?"

"He'll be fine," Jason snapped. "Go play with Clayface." He cast a nervous glance at the door, through which they'd entered the cave. It would be just their luck if a stray inmate happened on them, now.

Damien's response was short, clear, and utterly unprintable. Jason ignored him and covered Bruce with another blanket.

"Easy," Dinah helped Dick to a sitting position and tilted a cup of water toward him so he could drink. "Easy. Don't gulp it too fast."

Dick nodded. "Throat's dry," he said. He grimaced and closed his eyes. "I hate being sick."

"You're not sick, you're drugged. Big difference." She placed a hand on his forehead. "It'll wear off."

She set the cup down on a nearby table. When she looked back at Dick, he was asleep.

Roy was rummaging through an open first aid kit as he jabbered into his commlink. "Got 'em. Thanks, Mike. Any side effects we need to watch out for?" He sighed. "You know and I know he won't go to a hospital. I've been in touch with Pieter, already. The good doc says Alfred's got a clean bill of health…" Red Arrow was silent for a few minutes. Then, "I'll tell them. And I'll stick around and tell _him_, too." He chuckled. "That'll be… fun." He laughed louder. "Oh, I'll tell him THAT! Probably make the next JLA potluck interesting. Here's a tip, Mr. T: if he offers you some sort of casserole as a 'token of his appreciation', and he tells you he cooked it himself… run. It means he's rethinking his no killing code." He grinned. "Good luck with Checkmate, Holt. They need more people like you. Arrow out."

"Well?" Jason demanded.

"They call him 'Mr. Terrific' for a reason," he said.

"Because he picked it as his code-name?"

Roy ignored the wisecrack. "First of all, Batman's probably going to be fine. According to Mr. T, the neurotoxin should start wearing off in four to six hours. But until it's completely out of his system," Roy pointed to the assortment of medications on the table, "we need to keep that stuff separate. He takes any of those, the side effects could be bad, maybe fatal."

Jason blinked. "Got it. What else did he say?"

"Alfred's better, but he's still not at a hundred per cent. We're going to have to stick around and make sure he doesn't knock himself out waiting on Bruce… which means we'll have to help out both of them. And 'Wing, too."

Jason considered that. Then he nodded. "Okay. Anything else?"

"Yeah," Roy grinned. "Terrific said to warn Bruce that if he doesn't follow orders this time, he'll have to visit Gotham and…" All at once he realized that Damien was listening intently. It occurred to him that quoting Michael Holt's words verbatim might not be such a good idea, after all. "And kick some bat-butt," he concluded.

Jason laughed.

Damien scowled. "If there is any kicking to be done," he nearly spat the words out, "it shall be done by Father."

Anything that either young man might have said in response was cut off abruptly by the sound of the door edging open. Jay's hand flew to his knife, while Roy quickly nocked a fresh arrow to his bow.

A moment later, Robin walked slowly into view. "SWAT's upstairs," he said by way of greeting. "They're helping the doctors corral the last of the patients." He frowned. "I saw Talia outside. What…" He took in the scene before him with some dismay, "happened?"

Dinah, Jay, Damien and Roy all began to speak at once. Dinah held up a hand. "Jay, you were the last one to leave, you fill him in."

Jason thought for a moment. "They tried to kill us, we beat 'em. I'm starved."

Dinah sighed. "On second thought… Roy, you tell him."

Roy opened his mouth. Dinah held up a hand. "Sorry, just a sec. Robin… you said you saw Talia. Is she alright? Why didn't she come back with you?"

Robin locked eyes with Damien. With a gentleness he hadn't known he could use in addressing the boy, he said, "She left. About twenty minutes ago. And it didn't look like she was planning to come back anytime soon."

Damien's mouth dropped open. "She… she left me?"

Tim nodded. "I'm sorry." He put a hand on the young boy's shoulder.

For once, Damien didn't bristle at the familiarity. "Did she have any… parting words for me?"

Tim hesitated a moment too long.

"She didn't. Did she?"

"I'm sorry," Tim said again.

Damien nodded curtly and turned away, nearly colliding with Jason.

"Hey," Jason gripped him by one arm, steadying him. "Hey, kid. I gotcha."

The boy's face crumpled and he flung himself forward, into Jay's mid-section. "Why?" He whispered. "Why would she…?"

Jay hugged him close. "What're you guys looking at?" He demanded. "See how Bruce and Dick are doing, for chrissake!" He held Damien tighter as his companions turned their attention back to the two patients. "I gotcha," he repeated. "I gotcha."

With uncharacteristic gentleness, he guided the small boy toward one of the sofas, and it was there that Damien fell into an exhausted sleep, his head resting against Jason's leg. Jason waited almost a full twenty minutes before he carefully extricated himself and walked back to the others.


	10. Chapter 10: A New Start

Thanks to Elle, for brainstorming, to Komikbookvixen, for the one combat tip necessary in this chapter, and to Sara, for certain ideas that insinuated themselves after one too many IM sessions.

Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and Aiyokusama for the beta!

"A New Life" written by Leslie Bricusse. _Jekyll and Hyde_ soundtrack (Atlantic, 1997).

"Not a Bad Thing" written by Sunny Russ, Dave Berg, and Deanna Bryant. Recorded by Trisha Yearwood on _Heaven, Heartache, and the Power of Love_ (Big Machine, 2007).

* * *

_What I wouldn't give  
To have a new life!  
One thing I have learned  
As I go through life:  
Nothing is for free  
Along the way!_

_A new start -  
That's the thing I need,  
To give me new heart -  
Half a chance in life  
To find a new part,  
Just a simple role  
That I can play._

_Leslie Bricusse, "A New Life"_

* * *

**A New Start**

The envelope arrived at the manor five days later. It bore no return address, only the words 'for Damien', written in bold black ink, with a flowing hand. It contained nothing but an unlabeled DVD.

"…Believe me, my son, when I say that this decision did not come easily. One day, I hope that we shall be reunited. Until that time, know that I love you, and would give my all to have you with me. Although such a thing cannot be at this time, I have left you in the best pl—"

Damien pressed savagely on the 'eject' button. In one swift motion, he extracted the DVD from the player and hurled the disc across the cave. It sank into the large Tyrannosaur's neck.

"I hate her," the boy said fiercely.

Bruce sighed. "She isn't wrong," he said. "Ra's doesn't react well when those he trusts betray him. He'll be looking for her now, and she has to move carefully. He closed his eyes. "And Interpol is searching for her, as well, with regards to the death of Jezebel Jet." His tone betrayed nothing. "At this juncture," he continued, "anyone with her is at risk."

Damien refused to be mollified. "I can watch out for myself. And for her." He turned his back. "How can she abandon me?" His voice cracked. "It's because Clayface and Jet got the better of me, isn't it?"

Bruce placed a hand on his shoulder. Damien shook it off. "I'm not a baby in need of coddling!" He spun about furiously and bolted into the elevator. "I'm sorry about your precious lizard," he mumbled as the doors shut.

Behind Bruce, Tim sighed. "And just when we finally got Old Rex looking like new again," he said. He picked up a stepladder and approached the dinosaur. "Oh, well. He was in worse shape after he went one-on-one with Hush." Carefully, he mounted the stepladder and tugged the DVD free.

"You patrolling tonight?" He asked.

Bruce shook his head. "I believe that might be premature," he said, looking meaningfully at the elevator. "You and Nightwing should be able to keep things under control without me."

Tim's automatic protest died on his lips. It was obvious that Bruce wasn't in any mood to listen.

* * *

When Bruce emerged from the cave some moments later, he found Damien in the kitchen with Jason.

"If it helps," Jay was saying, "at least _your_ mother didn't take you by the hand and deliver you to Joker."

"_What_?" Dick, who'd been entering the kitchen via the other doorway, stopped, shocked. "You've got to be—no," he corrected himself. "You don't kid, and even if you did, you wouldn't. Not about something like that. I just… wow."

Jason nodded. "Yeah, well." He looked away—and saw Bruce standing behind him. He sighed. "She said she wanted to show me something. Turned out to be a clown with a crowbar." He took in Bruce's expression. "Don't," he snapped. "Nobody could have told you, and the way I'd been acting up to that point, _I_ would've thought I went charging in, too." When Bruce continued to stare at him, Jason turned his back. "Jeez, it's water under the bridge, already. I'm past it, okay?"

Bruce shook his head. "Your mother," he said hollowly, "told me you took the brunt of the explosion."

Jason closed his eyes. "I don't remember. And even if that's true, so what? It didn't save her." He raised his hands abruptly. "First person who tries to hug me gets socked." He opened his eyes once more, to see that Bruce and Dick were both holding their positions. A small smile came and went. "It's over. I only brought it up so the pipsqueak would stop whining, so just quit it." He pushed his chair back from the table. "Crowded in here," he muttered, brushing past Bruce.

* * *

Bruce gave him a half-hour before he went looking for him. He found Jason on the back lawn, standing on the edge of a slight depression in the sod. He was kicking the grass absently, as though trying to level the ground.

"The tree was uprooted in the Cataclysm," Bruce said softly.

The younger man nodded slightly. He gave the ground another kick. "I heard about that. The quake, I mean. I wondered why the city skyline looked so different when I came back." He paused. "You rebuilt the manor, too, I see."

"It was necessary."

Jason nodded. "I liked the tree."

"I remember."

There was an awkward silence. Finally, Jason ventured, "How much did Roy tell you?"

"I… appreciate your help at Arkham."

Jason turned to face him. One eyebrow shot up. "Gratitude? From _you_? You feeling okay?"

Bruce waited. For a fleeting moment, he wished that he'd come outside wearing the cowl. At least, if he'd then removed it, Jason might have understood the action. Words were too easily misinterpreted at times. He held his hands out, palms up, slightly more than shoulder distance apart. "It's… good to see you again," he said.

"I meant what I said before," Jason warned. "No goddamned hugs." He looked down at his feet, and then muttered under his breath "I'm not Dick Grayson."

Bruce's lips twitched. "No, you're not. But he's not you, either."

Jason's jaw dropped. After a moment, he smiled and looked away again. "Yeah, fine, but if you're going to start out by thanking me, who knows what you'll end up doing?"

"Unpredictability…" Bruce ventured with a faint smile.

"…has its advantages," Jason finished. "How long has Alfred been tossing out that line?"

Bruce shook his head. "At least as long as I've known him." He felt himself relax a bit.

Jason's shoulders lowered fractionally. "I came here in the first place because I needed to talk to you."

Bruce nodded. After a moment, when Jason failed to elaborate, he said, "I'm listening."

Jason met his eyes. "I… actually think you are," he marveled. He took a deep breath. "I… guess you heard about how I went…" he broke off. "Well, Roy called it 'star trekking across the multiverse'." He winced. It hadn't sounded that stupid when Roy had said it.

Bruce, though, was nodding. "Harper has a… unique way of describing a situation." He took a half-step closer. "I did hear." After another moment, he added, "I imagine that it may have been unnerving to find oneself in a place that appeared to be familiar at the outset, and then…"

"No," Jay considered. "Most of it was pretty weird from the start." He took another breath. "Of course, there _was_ the world where you killed the Joker after I… died."

Bruce tensed. "Noted."

"Noted?" Jason raised an eyebrow. "Is that all you can say?"

"What would you like me to say?" Bruce asked. "I suppose that in my counterpart's… reality, he had his reasons. I don't share—"

"I thought you were listening," Jason snapped.

"I have been," Bruce shot back. "You found a reality where I—or some version of me—did what you wished I had—"

"I. DIDN'T! DAMN IT!"

Bruce's jaw snapped shut.

"It wasn't you," Jason continued. "Oh, he had your name and gadgets and everything, but…" He whirled around again. "I don't do sappy," he muttered. "Look, whatever I thought I wanted, he wasn't it. That guy wasn't someone I'd want to Robin for." He paused. "Even if the costume he gave me _was_ off the hook."

"What?"

Jason couldn't help smiling. "Rad? _Groovy_? Sheesh, brush up on your street-talk." He sighed. "Anyway, I thought you'd like to know."

Bruce's lips twitched. He sobered quickly. "Thank you," he said. "I…" He let out a long, slow breath. "Dealing… permanently with Joker _did _cross my mind. At the time."

"Yeah? What stopped you?"

"Superman."

Jason blinked. "Damned interfering alien," he muttered. "Typical." Then he turned away so Bruce wouldn't see his smile.

He flinched when the hand came down on his shoulder, but made no effort to remove it.

* * *

"Tim said you're staying in, tonight." Dick's fists pounded rhythmically against the black cylindrical punching bag.

Bruce made a non-committal sound and approached the exercise mat. He assumed a cross-legged position, closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath.

"There a reason?"

Bruce ignored him and tried to find his center. His world narrowed to a single pinpoint of black on a white field. He focused on the pinpoint, drew it to him, became one with it, became at one with himself. When he opened his eyes, though, Dick was sitting opposite him, in the same cross-legged position, waiting patiently.

"C'mon, don't shut me out," he said. "You haven't been out on patrol for nearly a week." He frowned. "This wouldn't have something to do with… with falling off a trapeze, would it?"

Bruce blinked. Then he remembered their earlier conversation. "No," he said finally. "It's only that," he sighed, "I need to do something else for now."

"Bruce?"

Without another word, Bruce strode over to the main computer, and typed in a command. "I just want to make sure," he said under his breath, "good. He's not down here." He turned to face Dick. "Damien," he began, "presents a problem."

To Dick's mind, Damien presented several. He waited for Bruce to continue, though.

"When he came back with me, the first time, months ago," Bruce began haltingly, "I… left him with Alfred and Tim, and went back to work. I'd assumed," he looked away, "well, Talia had told him who I was and what I did. I'd thought to leave him at the manor and get to know him in the morning."

Dick nodded understandingly, but wondered how the 'world's greatest detective' could sometimes be so clueless about human nature.

Bruce's voice dropped to just above a whisper. "He injured Alfred and nearly killed Tim."

"I heard." And then, almost immediately, he said, "But you can't blame yourse—" He caught himself. _Oh, yes, Bruce could. And usually did._

But Bruce was shaking his head. "It's true I couldn't have predicted his actions. However, bringing a young boy halfway around the world, leaving him in unfamiliar surroundings, and turning him over to complete strangers…" He sighed. "I do bear some responsibility for his reactions."

Much as he wanted to protest, Dick mentally conceded the point.

"I can't let it happen again," Bruce continued. "He's just had everything else ripped away from him. I'm… the only person he has left." He shook his head. "This _isn't_ one of my strengths—I'd be a fool to think it was, but… I need to work with him, and not as Batman." He closed his eyes.

"Bruce…" Impulsively, Dick put a hand on his arm.

Bruce took another breath. "I… when you first came here, Dick, I didn't know what to do. I saw the accident, I knew what you were going through and I wanted to help you… but I didn't have the faintest idea how. So," he smiled ruefully, "I left _you_ with Alfred and went out on patrol. Feeling," he added, "like a coward." He patted Dick's hand. "I didn't know how to talk to you, then. Or maybe," he admitted, "it was that I was… afraid of having to revisit my _own _memories." He opened his eyes again, and met Dick's squarely. "When you found the cave, and you asked me to train you, I found that it was easier to think of myself as a teacher than as a father." He placed a hand on Dick's shoulder. "Easier, not more accurate." He sighed. "What I'm trying to say, is that, until now, I've started by training soldiers and ended by raising sons. With Damien… I have to reverse that. He doesn't need a teacher."

Dick nodded his comprehension. "He needs a father."

"He needs a father who isn't out at all hours of the day and night," Bruce amended. "Right now, I'm the only one he listens to. Unless that should change, I can't expect Alfred—or any of you—to look after him. Nor should you have to." Bruce took a deep breath. "So. Until further notice, the cowl's yours."

Although his heart did leap at Bruce's words, Dick shook his head. "I… don't honestly think it'll fit me anymore," he said. "I'm honored. Seriously. And if you want Nightwing back in Gotham for the duration, I need a couple of weeks to get things squared away in New York, and I'll be on the next train or plane back here. But those," he pointed to the uniforms visible through the half-opened door to the costume vault, "I put them on the same level with Jackie Robinson's number 42. If _you_ aren't going to wear the suit, then I say 'retire it'."

"Gotham needs—"

"A protector. Or several." Dick grinned. "It's had Robin for awhile, now. I already said I'd come back. We can pull Cass out of the Outsiders, if she's willing. Jay might even…"

"Jason's moving to Star City," Bruce interrupted. "Harper suggested it."

Dick blinked. Then the smile was back. "You know," he said, "that might actually work out decently."

"I concur." There was a long pause.

"Bruce," Dick ventured finally. "About the suit…"

Bruce smiled faintly. "I don't doubt I'll be back in it before too long. But for now," he took another breath, "let's call it a leave of absence."

"Understood."

Bruce nodded. "Dick," he said hesitantly, "you… have no objections to Damien being here, correct?"

Dick shook his head. "He's your son. I get that."

"So are you." He waited for Dick to meet his eyes again. "And I don't want you thinking otherwise for a moment."

* * *

"But it's only fair that _I_ receive the larger bedroom, Timothy!" Damien's voice was high with disapproval. "First, I need the extra space for my combat katas, as Father has advised me that he doesn't wish me downstairs unsupervised."

Only Damien, Tim mused, could somehow make being barred from the cave sound desirable.

The boy continued. "You don't require nearly as much space, if all you're doing is sleeping and studying."

Tim didn't look up from his smart-phone. "I'm keeping the room, Damien." He continued to text.

"Second, as an Al-Ghul, I'm far more deserving of the space than you are."

Tim continued messaging Zoanne. "We don't always get what we deserve. As you know."

"Third," Damien's voice rose irritably, "I _am_ Father's only natural son…"

"In Shakespeare's day, that term would be synonymous with 'bastard'. You know that, don't you?"

"…whereas you and the others, Drake, are only adopted!"

Tim stood up with a sigh and pocketed the smart-phone. "Damien, 'adopted' means Bruce _chose _us. He's _stuck_ with you," he said mildly. "Now, if you have a problem with where you're sleeping, I'd suggest taking it up with Bruce. If you want me, I'll be in _my_ room."

He strode past the sputtering younger boy.

Damien's eyes narrowed. "You _dare _turn your back on an al Ghul?" He sprang at Tim's retreating figure.

Tim had been anticipating something of the kind. He waited until Damien was committed to his course, and then sidestepped. The smaller boy rolled as he hit the floor. Before he could rise again, Tim grabbed him by the ankles and hoisted him up. "It doesn't work so well when your target is expecting the attack, does it?"

"Put me down, Drake!" Damien's arms flailed madly.

"Not until you promise to behave."

"Release me, or I'm telling Father!"

Tim pretended to consider. "No. No, I don't think I will."

"Well," said a voice from behind him, "_I_ do."

Tim let out a long breath. "Hi, Bruce." He realized how it had to look—him restraining a boy slightly more than half his age, and a good head-and-shoulders shorter. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Dick was standing next to him. "Damien and I were just having a discussion." He carefully lowered his captive to the ground.

Bruce cast him a withering look. "You're practically an adult, Tim. Act it."

Tim half-turned toward him. "I…" he shook his head. "Forget it. You can review the security tapes late—"

Damien surged upward and kicked Tim in the shins.

Dick grabbed Tim's arm and pulled him aside as Bruce pushed ahead and gripped Damien's shoulders with both hands. "Look at me," he ordered.

Still bristling, Damien obeyed. "Nobody ever takes my side!" He protested. "Timothy—"

"This will stop," Bruce said quietly. "There are close to one-hundred fifty rooms in the manor alone, to say nothing of the outbuildings. Surely the two of you don't need to be right on top of one another?"

"He had no provocation, Father!" Damien shot back, "I merely suggested that he yield me the larger bedroom in recognition of my status within this household and…"

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I see." He looked over his shoulder. "Tim?"

Tim sighed. "If you want me to give it up, I will. It's not worth making a big deal over, I guess."

Damien began to smile. Bruce's next words checked him.

"It's up to you, Dick. Do you want your old room back?"

Dick blinked. "What?"

"You're moving back here?" Tim asked, excited.

"Think you can deal?"

"Yes!"

Dick grinned. His expression sobered. "Listen, I wasn't expecting this. If you'd rather keep the room… I mean, I put up a few circus posters and in a few days time, any bedroom here would…"

"No," Tim shook his head. "It's fine."

Dick's eyes narrowed. "Really?" He asked. "Just like that?" He shook his head. "You're giving it up awfully easily." He wrapped Tim in a headlock. "I bet there's something wrong with it! You painted the window shut, didn't you?"

"No!" Tim fought back a laugh as he felt Dick grind his knuckles into his scalp.

"Spilled sulfuric acid on the rug?"

"No!"

Dick ruffled his hair. "You can't fool me! You must've done _something_? Booby-trapped the closet?"

"N…" Tim stopped laughing. His eyes grew wide. "Not… the closet," he said faintly. He twisted around in Dick's grip, and cast a meaningful look in Damien's direction. "I'll be back," he mumbled, breaking loose. "I just gotta fix… something."

* * *

**Epilogue**

_Two days later…_

"You don't have to go, you know," Dick said. The two were walking down the gravel path, which led from the manor to the large hill that camouflaged the hangar.

"Yeah and you don't have to fly me. I can always hitch."

"Over my d—HEY!" He blocked Jason's punch almost instinctively.

Jason turned aside. "Don't joke like that. You have no… just… Don't." He took a few angry steps forward, then stopped.

Dick waited.

After a few moments, Jason doubled back. "If you're taking me, get a move on, G-d!"

"Seriously," Dick said as they continued. "Bruce wants you here."

"He's got my old costume in a trophy case." Jason sniffed. "Good enough."

"You don't believe that for a minute, and neither does he."

Jason sighed. "I know he doesn't… now." He grimaced. "Look, no matter what the plaque says, I was never a 'good soldier'. The longer I stick around, the faster he'll remember that. And the first time someone dies on my watch—and it's going to happen—he'll start wondering: did I or didn't I. Even if he doesn't ask." He looked down. "He won't ask. He'll just… think it." His eyes locked on Dick's. "Ever since I got back from… last year, I've been playing by his rules." He nodded at Dick's expression. "I haven't been killing. Just making the mooks wish I _was_. But it's a hell of a lot easier when nobody _expects_ me to follow his...." He turned. "Crap. Look, I just want to start fresh. New city, new partner, new ballgame. You got a problem, you can go f…" He stopped. "You can get bent."

Dick raised an eyebrow. "You know," he said, "Roy's probably not going to let you talk like that around him." He grinned. "Too unimaginative. No, I give it a week before he's got you swearing in Spanish, Cantonese, and Inuktitun. You'll need to learn fast if you want to keep up."

"_Vate a la mierda_."

"Oh, good." Dick's eyes crinkled. "You already know Spanish. However," he added seriously, "you'll have to learn when to rein your vocabulary in, too, or Roy's never going to let you meet his daughter…"

* * *

"Sir, perhaps I could ease the…"

Bruce shook his head. "Thanks, Alfred, but I think I can handle this."

The elderly man sighed. "Very well, Sir. He's in here, I believe." Alfred pushed open the door to the study. "I ought to be helping Master Tim transfer his belongings to the Tuscan bedroom, as well."

"Tim can manage. You rest."

From overhead, came a thud, and then the sound of something being dragged along the floor. Alfred went pale. "Sir! He'll tear up the carpeting…"

"I'm on it, Alfred." Bruce dashed up the stairs.

Alfred took note of the small boy, huddled in the window-seat, watching the plane clear the manor grounds. "Master Damien? Is there any way in which I might be of assistance?"

Damien shook his head. "Why does he care so much about _them_? He has _me_, now."

The elderly butler sat down in a nearby armchair. "I'm not entirely clear as to what impact your recent arrival could have upon Master Bruce's emotions."

Damien brightened. "You mean he just hasn't known me long enough?"

Alfred sighed. "Suffice to say, Master Damien, that for your father, family ties are not necessarily forged in blood. You have three elder brothers, as well as one sister, whom you have yet to meet."

"But he has me!" Damien protested. "I understand that he took in others, but now that he knows of my existence, surely, he'll…"

"…welcome you into his home," Alfred finished. "As he has his other children, and they _are_ his children, in every way save biology. Perhaps, Master Damien, when you've lived a little longer, you'll realize how unimportant that factor is, when weighed against others."

"But I'm the only son who shares his blood!"

The butler sighed once more. "Given that Master Dick once saved his life by giving him a full-body blood transfusion, Sir, I'm not even certain that's true."

Damien seemed to shrink into himself, a bit more. "Then, it's hopeless," he whispered. "The others don't want me here, and he's just keeping me out of some sense of duty…"

"People don't always take kindly to attempts on their lives," Bruce broke in dryly. He sat down in a second armchair, which faced both Alfred and Damien. "For what it's worth," he said quietly, "you're wrong. I _do_ want you to stay. And it _isn't_ just because you're my son. I'm… sorry if I gave you reason to think that."

Damien looked away. "That's the most you've ever said to me."

"I tend to let actions speak, rather than words."

"You barely stay in the same room with me."

Bruce winced. "Point."

"Why do you want me here, anyway? If it's not because I'm your—"

"I did say, 'not _only_'," Bruce reminded him.

"Well, then, why else? You don't need me for your crusade. You don't want for an heir—your servant has made that _abundantly_ clear…"

"That's something else we'll need to set straight," Bruce mumbled, casting Alfred an apologetic look.

Alfred smiled. "Slowly, Master Bruce. There's no point trying to change a person's worldview in one afternoon."

Bruce nodded. He leaned forward in his chair and steepled his fingers. "It's difficult to adjust," he began haltingly, "to having your life ripped away from you in a moment. I had to make that adjustment when I wasn't much younger than you are right now. It's not the sort of thing that I'm comfortable seeing someone else endure."

Damien flushed. "You mean you pity me. You don't even know me! Am I supposed to be grateful that you're giving me a home? I hate this. I hate this place, and I hate my so-called siblings, and I hate Gotham, and I hate YOU!"

Without another word, he stormed out of the room.

Alfred hesitated. "Should I…"

Bruce shook his head. "No, Alfred. Let him cool off." He coughed. "He reminded me, though, old friend. I believe that I owe you an apology for saying something similar, over thirty years ago."

"Not at all, Sir. I'd clean forgotten, myself, until this moment." Alfred smiled. "You understand, then."

Bruce nodded. "He's just had his life changed, virtually overnight, and he's lashing out because he's angry about it. You and I just happen to be in range." He sighed. "How long did it take me before I stopped going off on _you_?"

"To tell the truth, Sir, I don't recall."

Bruce grimaced.

A moment later, the study door swung open, again. "I'm going upstairs," Damien announced.

They looked at him. "That's… fine, Damien," Bruce said.

Damien nodded curtly and exited. A moment later, he was back. "I don't hate you," he said softly.

He bolted out of the room, slamming the door behind him, before either of them could frame a response.

Bruce blinked. "What do you make of that, Alfred?"

The elderly butler smiled. "A start, Master Bruce," he said softly. "A start."

**The Beginning**

_As I'm drivin' home  
I'm thinkin' the worst might be over  
Or maybe I'm a little bit naive  
But the street lights seem brighter_

As I walk up to my front door…

(Sunny Russ, Dave Berg, Deanna Bryant, "Not a Bad Thing")


End file.
